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MEMOIRS 



OF 



Mr. JOHN TOBIN 



H.-L. Menckto. 






it 



mo 



Co 



PREFACE. 



)EVERAL years have elapsed since the 
comedy of The Honey Moon was an- 
nounced for representation. Unsupported 
by fashionable patronage or literary con- 
nexion, it had to struggle with the in- 
auspicious recollections of an unfortunate 
opera, which, under the same title, had 
been lately condemned on the same stage. 
Of the reputed author, little was known, 
but that he had long been an unsuccess- 
ful suitor at both the winter theatres : 
an equivocal circumstance, which, as can- 
dour or prejudice prevailed, might be 
quoted as an evidence of superior talent. 



VI 

or of incorrigible presumption. The in- 
troduction of a new play is generally an 
event of sufficient interest to fill our ca- 
pacious theatres ; and on the 31st of Ja- 
nuary, 1805, the curtain rose to a numerous 
audience. 

In the ordinary pains and pleasures of 
literary life, there is little to excite popular 
sympathy ; but the situation of a dramatic 
author in presenting his first essay to the 
public, is such as awakens some degree 
of interest and curiosity in the most 
phlegmatic spectator. The enquiries re- 
specting the author of The Honey-moon 
were, however, soon suspended, for the 
prologue announced the mournful truth, 
that he no longer existed, to deprecate 
censure, or exult in praise. 

He, though your loftiest plaudits you should raise. 
He cannot thank you for the meed of praise. 
Rapture he cannot feel, nor fear, nor shame; 
Connected with his love of earthly fame, 



Vli 

He is no more. — Yet may his memory live 
In all the bloom that early worth can give : 
Should you applaud, 'twould check the flowing tear 
Of those to whom his name and hopes are dear. 
But should you an unfinish'd structure find, 
As in its first and rudest forms design'd, 
As yet not perfect from the glowing mind, 
Then with a gentle voice your censure spread^ 
And spare the living — spare the sacred dead.* 

In listening to these beautiful lines, an 
universal emotion of sympathy and regret 
was perceived in the audience ; but how 
had their feelings of commiseration been 
heightened, could they have learned at 
the same moment, that the author, whose 
fate they deplored, had been condemned 
to a long and painful probation ! and that 
The Honey-moon was but the last of four- 
teen dramatic productions, twelve of which 
he had himself offered — to be rejected. 

* This elegant and appropriate little poem was written 
by Sir Humphrey Davy, who had lived in habits of inti- 
macy with the author of The Honey -moon. 
A 4 



vm 



In the memoirs of literary men, little of 
variety or novelty is to be expected j but 
the singular fact already stated is without 
a parallel in the records of dramatic bio- 
graphy ; and supposes in the dramatist 
a degree of fortitude, of patience, and 
perseverance, such as is commonly 
conceived to be incompatible with the 
poetical character. It will appear from 
the following pages, that the identical 
pieces, on which is founded his post- 
humous reputation, were in his lifetime 
dismissed with contempt '; it will be seen 
with surprise, that no portion of that favour 
so liberally showered on his literary remains, 
was permitted to invigorate his hopes, or to 
inspirit his exertions ; the praise that should 
have refreshed his fainting spirit, •■ — the 
success that might have called forth its 
latent energies, — has but embalmed his 
memory, or cast a romantic halo around 
his untimely grave. 

The perusal of the poet's memoirs will 
sufficiently explain the motives to which 

*5 



IX 

the present volume owes its existence. Of 
the four dramas selected for publication, 
it is merely necessary to state, that two 
of them have been acted but not printed, 
and that the other two were not conceived 
to be eligible for representation. There 
still remain some minor pieces, which it 
may be hoped will, hereafter, take their 
trial on the stage. 

The biographical part of this work is 
unquestionably that which most requires 
candour and indulgence. Whatever is men- 
tioned respecting the poet's tastes, habits, 
and opinions, has been derived from those 
with whom he lived in the most unreserved 
intimacy and confidence, — from the asso- 
ciates of his childhood and the friends 
of his youth, — above all, from the conver- 
sation of his brother, the late Mr. James 
Tobin *, and the inspection of the private 
papers and manuscripts in the possession of 

* The writer of these pages became acquainted with 
Mr. James Tobin the year after the poet's death. 



his widow, on whom have now devolved 
the duties attached to the poet's represen- 
tative. 

Allowing for the obvious and unavoid- 
able deficiencies of the narrative, it is, 
perhaps, not presumptuous to indulge the 
hope, that, to the lovers and well-wishers 
of the drama, the Life of John Tobin, how- 
ever barren of events, may not be wholly 
without interest. As none of those disap- 
pointments he was doomed to experience 
could be traced to the operation of pre- 
judice or malignity, it is reasonable to con- 
clude, that the same causes which re- 
tarded his progress, may have for ever ar- 
rested the efforts of men not inferior in 
talent, but not equally endowed with for- 
titude and perseverance. This reflection 
more particularly demands attention at the 
present moment, when the degeneracy of 
dramatic talent is so often adduced as the 
sole cause of indifference or apathy for 



XI 

our national theatre ; but may it not be 
suspected that real genius has been some- 
times compelled^ by discouragement or ne- 
glect, to linger an unwilling exile from the 
first object of its literary enthusiasm and 
devotion, or even to renounce for ever that 
mimic world, to which, under happier cir- 
cumstances, it might have added dominion, 
honour, and prosperity ? It is too common 
to censure individuals for the faults of a 
whole community. Whatever may have 
been the mistakes of those to whom the 
interests of the stage have been commit- 
ted, it is evident that they must have re- 
ceived their impulse from the public, 
which sanctions the dereliction of taste, by 
withholding support from real talent, and 
by an avowed preference of ephemeral to 
imperishable productions. * 

* Although the tragedy of De Montfort should never 
be restored to the stage, its introduction, so much to the 
honour of theatrical taste, ought not to be forgotten. 
In like manner we have lately seen Richard the Second, 
and Timon of Athens revived, only to attract transient 



Xll 



The theatre is the only Capitol in which 
our bards must look for the laurel crown, 
or receive the splendid triumph. The 
aspect of an assembled multitude, of 
whom the lowest, equally with the highest., 
asserts the privileges of sovereignty, is far 
more imposing than the magnificent pa- 
geantry by which the Tassos or Petrarch s 
of former ages were dazzled with the 
personifications of glory and immortality. 
No mitred chiefs ■— no sceptred potentates 
— ever bestowed honours so dear, so sacred, 
as the spontaneous suffrage of a liberal and 
enlightened audience. It should also be 
remembered, that w T ith us the drama is of 
native growth — a self-sown species of 
poetry, which fixed its broad roots in 
the habits— the sympathies — the affections 
of the people. To suppose that this fair- 
est product of the age of Elizabeth is al- 
ready withering in hopeless though pre- 

homage, although both these characters were sustained 
by the genius of that great actor, who is confessedly a 
living illustration of Shakespeare. 



Xlll 



mature decay, is to suppose not merely 
an alteration but a perversion of English 
character, than which nothing can be more 
dissonant to true English feeling ! 

It is earnestly to be wished that the 
simple but authentic statement of Tobin's 
difficulties and disappointments, may excite 
in some intelligent and powerful mind, an 
interest in the general character of our 
dramatic exhibitions, commensurate with 
the real dignity and importance of the 
subject. May it be the business of some 
able pen, not merely to trace to their 
latent source the causes of that aliena- 
tion in the public from their once fa- 
vourite pursuit, but to suggest feasible 
and efficient remedies for the grow- 
ing evil. To the countrymen of Shake- 
speare it can never be an object of indif- 
ference, to preserve in a national theatre 
the patrimony of genius, for the protection 
of their cotemporaries, and the honour 
of posterity. 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

Memoirs of Mr. John Tobin 1 
Analysis, by John Tobin, of La Gitanilla de 

Madrid - - - - 171 

The Tragedy, a Fragment - - 187 

The Indians, a Play - 229 

Your's or Mine, a Comic Opera - - 299 

The Fisherman, an Opera - 365 



MEMOIRS 



OF THE LATE 



Mr. JOHN TOBIN. 



John Tobin was born at Salisbury, the 
26th of January 1770. His father was 
well connected, and by education pre- 
pared for a liberal profession, but that 
destination was afterwards altered; and 
on his marriage with Miss Webbe, the 
daughter of an opulent West Indian, his 
father surrendered to his possession an 
estate in the island of Nevis ; and from 
that period he became ostensibly a planter. 
During the first years of this union he did 



2 

not renounce his residence in England, but 
settled with his young wife at Salisbury ; 
and much of their time was spent with her 
father at Old Sarum, in the mansion still 
distinguished for having been the retreat 
of the great Lord Chatham, and the birth- 
place of William Pitt. 

This village is pleasantly situated on the 
banks of the Avon, and from its vicinity to 
a city, offered peculiar facilities for the 
pleasures of society. During the winter 
season, festivity and hospitality prevailed 
through the neighbourhood, which was also 
occasionally enlivened by a company of 
players ; and it was the most pleasing re- 
collection of John Tobin's childhood, that 
he had been sometimes permitted to ac- 
company his mother to the humble theatre 
at Salisbury ; where he contributed not a 
little to the amusement of her party, by the 
uncontrolled expression of his rapturous 
delight. 



a 

At the commencement of the American 
war, Mr. Tobin, finding his personal super- 
intendance necessary to the prosperity of 
his plantations, embarked with his wife for 
Nevis, leaving three sons, who were all of 
an age to be placed at school, under the 
protection of their maternal grandfather^ 
and the tuition of Dr. Mant, long deserv- 
edly respected for the ability and success 
with which he conducted a classical semi- 
nary at Southampton. In separating from 
their parents the young Tobins lost not the 
comforts and privileges of home, since they 
regularly spent the vacations at Stratford, 
where they received a full share of paternal 
affection and indulgence. Mr. Webbe appears 
to have been a man of worth and sense, who, 
with quick generous feelings, was a shrewd 
observer of life and manners ; and allow- 
ing for the prejudices of a West Indian, 
possessed a strong sense of justice and 
integrity: his pride was not vulgar; he 
despised the dissipated and the sordid, and 
b 2 



revolted from the language of sycophants 
and parasites : frank and high-spirited, he 
considered dissimulation as dishonesty, and 
strenuously enforced on his grandsons the 
sacred obligation to sincerity and truth. 
Ardent and tenacious in his opinions, he 
was apt to lose sight of moderation in the 
zeal with which he defended them : but it 
may be presumed they were maintained on 
conviction, since he scrupled not to dissent 
from his political party, or oppose the inte- 
rests even of his relations, if they militated 
against his conscience. 

From such a man it was scarcely possible 
not to have imbibed a high sense of honour 
and independence : but it might have been 
expected that the taste for luxury and 
expence exhibited in his munificent hospi- 
tality should have produced in his grand- 
sons corresponding habits and propensities ; 
yet the result was far otherwise ; and whe- 
ther the influence of example was counter- 



acted by school discipline, or the elegant 
pursuits of literature, the Tobins became 
remarkable for their simple modes of life ; 
their contempt of luxury, and indifference 
for those accidental distinctions of fortune 
to which vulgar minds attach immeasurable 
importance. 

It must, however, be acknowledged, that 
Mr. Webbe's school was a bad preparation 
for a regular seminary. To be transported 
from that mansion of liberty,, cheerfulness, 
and hospitality, to walls of academic strict- 
ness and seclusion, was some trial of juvenile 
fortitude: yet John Tobin readily accom- 
modated himself to a change in situation 
which, to some of his companions, appeared 
intolerable. Ever disposed to receive pleas- 
ing and exhilarating impressions, he enjoy- 
ed to-day without regretting yesterday, or 
anticipating to-morrow. In a few hours the 
restraints of school were by him unfelt or 
disregarded. Such was the quickness of 



6 



his parts, that he outstripped all the boys 
of his own age ; and such the sweetness of 
his disposition, that he was generally be- 
loved even by those he had surpassed. No 
sooner was the grammatical exercise com- 
pleted which composed his morning task, 
than he employed himself to correct the 
blunders or supply the deficiencies of his 
less forward companions ; and happy they 
who, by sitting in the same class, had the 
good fortune to profit by his promptitude 
and kindness. To these superior attain- 
ments he appears not to have attached the 
least importance ; and he was so perfectly 
unambitious of pre-eminence, that when it 
was proposed to act the play of Cato as a 
school exercise, he aspired to no higher part 
than that of Lucius. 

The town of Southampton was annually 
visited by a company of players, and it 
was the reward of those scholars who had 
produced a superior Latin composition ta 



attend the little theatre. On these occasions 
the diligence of young Tobin was quicken- 
ed at the expence of his equanimity ; and 
such was his ardour, that it even betrayed 
him to expressions of impatience foreign 
to his character. With a passion for the 
drama so decided and invincible, it might 
have been expected, that, like many other 
juvenile amateurs, he should seek oppor- 
tunities to distinguish himself as an actor ; 
but this propensity, if it really existed, was 
completely counteracted by his aversion 
for active pursuits, and any thing like 
personal exhibition. Already devoted to the 
pleasures of the imagination, he relished 
not the exercises which disturbed the har- 
mony of his thoughts, and forced him 
from his own aerial castle of indolence and 
meditation. During the vacations he was 
observed to take no interest in gardening, 
and to shew little ambition for the reputa^ 
tion of a keen sportsman : his favourite 
b4 



8 

recreation was angling, which he could 
pursue without effort and without inter- 
ruption to his solitary musings. 

It was on the rural banks of the Avon 
that he first attempted to reduce his desul- 
tory ideas to order and measure. There, 
apparently absorbed in the angler's in- 
dolent and almost passive amusement, he 
surrendered himself to the delightful im- 
pressions of beauty and harmony, which 
in cultivated minds are produced by the 
genial aspect of nature. Having taken his 
station in some squestered spot, whilst he 
inhaled the fresh air and enjoyed its still- 
ness, he meditated, without withdrawing his 
attention from external objects, and often 
began and ended a song which was never 
committed to paper : to his brother alone 
was this clandestine indulgence acknow- 
ledged, for from him only did he look for. 
sympathy and encouragement. 



From the days of Ben Jonson* to the 
present hour, we shall find the opulent 
citizen and substantial landholder among 
the inveterate enemies of those literary pur- 
suits which lead not to the attainment of 
fortune : and poetry has been so rarely the 
associate of wealth and prosperity, that it 
appears to be often held synonimous with 
profligacy and penury. — It is not to be 
supposed that Mr* Webbe or his friends 
were superior to this common prejudice ; 
and it was, perhaps, from the conscious- 
ness of their sentiments on this subject, 
that young Tobin acquired a shyness and 
caution, with regard to his literary com- 
positions, which invariably attended him 
through succeeding life. 

* Myself was once a student, and, indeed, 
Fed with the self-same humour he is now, 
Dreaming on nought but idle poetry, 
That fruitless and unprofitable art, 
Good unto none, but least to the professor. 

Every Man in his Humour, 



10 

The termination of the American war 
at length permitted Mr, and Mrs. Tobin 
to return to England, and to reunite the 
divided branches of their now numerous 
family, of which the elder and younger 
must have been strangers to each other. 
Mr. Tobin having engaged in mercantile 
concerns, finally settled at Bristol, where 
John and James had once more the hap- 
piness of being restored to the paternal 
roof; nor was their grandfather deserted 
by his pupils, since he quitted Strat- 
ford, and established himself at Red- 
land, near Bristol, where he enjoyed an 
uninterrupted intercourse with his daugh- 
ter's family, and to the last moments of 
his life, distinguished with peculiar affec- 
tion the boys who had been so often 
the companions of his rural walks, and 
the partners of his Christmas festivities. 
This happy reunion was, however, but the 
prelude to future separation: the three 
eldest sons were rapidly advancing to 



11 

maturity, and it became necessary to 
allot to each his respective part in life, 
James had long been destined for the 
church ; for John it was not easy to dis- 
cover a suitable vocation. Yet, misled by 
his sedentary habits and apparently unam- 
bitious temper, his friends conceived him 
to be exactly fitted for a solicitor's office, 
Not immediately however to divorce him 
from the superior objects of a liberal edu- 
cation, he was placed under the care of 
Dr. Lee, master of the grammar-school 
of Bristol, and encouraged to extend his 
acquaintance with modern literature. — 
Associated in their daily studies and 
recreations, assimilating in tastes, senti- 
ments, and opinions, James and John 
Tobin insensibly contracted a friendship, 
such as is rarely found to exist in the 
most intimate relations of domestic life. A 
community of interests seemed established 
between them ; and in a family distin- 
guished by harmony and affection, they 



w 

stood pledged to each other for a still more 
exclusive fraternal attachment. 

It was not merely in the society of 
his fellow student and his tutor, that the 
younger Tobin had opportunities of en- 
joying cultivated society. His father, 
who had received an education such as 
is rarely bestowed on a West Indian 
merchant, still devoted his leisure hours 
to the British Classics ; and without sus- 
pecting he had a son who aspired to 
dramatic fame, unconsciously cherished 
the passion he had even in childhood 
conceived for dramatic poetry. From 
his father also the young Tobin imbibed 
an enthusiastic admiration for Pope and 
Dryden ; but at the same time unluckily 
acquired a relish for satire, which often 
blights the youthful mind, to which it 
lends the semblance of maturity, and throws 
an ungenial chill over the poetical ima=* 
gination. 



13 

At the expiration of that year, which 
various circumstances conspired to render 
the happiest of his life, young Tobin quitted 
Bristol, to be articled to an eminent solici- 
tor in Lincoln's Inn ; he had just attained 
his seventeenth year, and it required all 
his constitutional philosophy to support 
without murmurs, the transition from his 
father's house and his master's study — the 
attractions of elegant society — and the 
charms of beautiful scenery — for the drudg- 
ery of an office — the noise — the bustle — 
the heartless insulation of a vast and to him 
unknown capital ; there was however some 
alleviation to this trial, since he was do- 
mesticated in a highly respectable family, 
whose kindness appears to have soon re- 
conciled him to the change of situation ; 
and in his native sweetness of temper, he 
possessed an universal passport to good- 
will and affection. With this extreme 
facility of character, he was fortunate in 
being placed with friends, who insensibly 



14 

acquired an undisputed right to regulate Ills 
habits and guard his inexperience. Dur- 
ing the first six months, all intellectual 
pursuits were precluded by the daily du- 
ties of the office, and when released from 
his desk, he was happy to embrace whatever 
relaxation his kind hosts proposed ; and 
with the society of a few friends, or the 
perusal of some ephemeral publication, 
he commonly closed the day, of which two 
thirds had been given to an irksome occu- 
pation. During some months he appears 
to have resolved to attach himself to his 
profession, for which, according to the 
following letter, addressed to an old school- 
fellowj he at that time rather felt indiffer- 
ence than aversion. 

" My present situation upon the whole is 
pleasing, notwithstanding the perseverance 
that is necessary to support ten hours of 
constant daily attention to a business which 
I do not yet thoroughly understand $ a bu* 
4 



u 

siness which, though subject to the greatest 
abuse, requires more attention than almost 
any other. I find the city of London very 
dull; it however improves upon me. My 
acquaintance is but thin as yet : of that 
number however is one, as an acquaint- 
ance only; for I do not by any means 
look on him in the light of a friend. I 
agree with you that he is a complete buck, 
and with your permission a true coffee- 
house lounger. 

" I generally go to the theatre once or 
twice a week at half-price. I have there- 
fore an opportunity of seeing most of the 
new farces, and some of the new plays, 
which (though I do not pretend to the talent 
of criticism) I think are for the most part 
very bad. 

" I have been once or twice to the dis- 
puting clubs, where I have met with two or 
three good speakers. I suppose James fur- 
, nishes you with Bristol news. I think his 
situation there a very comfortable one ; 



16 

indeed I have no reason to complain of my 
own. 

" I begin to enter by degrees into the spirit 
of my business, and though I meet with a 
great deal of what Shakespeare calls the 
insolence of office, I console myself with 
the reflection, that it is impossible to arrive 
at knowledge in any profession, without 
being in some measure a slave to it. The 
office I am in abounds with business, suf- 
ficient to keep ten of us constantly em- 
ployed." 

" Friday, September. 

"In spite of the mutual promises we made, 

our correspondence has already begun to 

drpop. I believe I can explain this matter 

better than you. By a letter of yours to 

— . (whom I saw on Sunday last), I 

understand you were in daily expectation 
of receiving an answer to your last, which 
I was surprised to find you had not j as I 
not only wrote you a very long one, but 



17 

put it myself into the hands of the postman 
who comes round. I shall now proceed 
without any cefemony, to acquaint you 
with all the news I know. I expect Jim 
in town every day ; he is going to spend 
some time with a gentleman at Kingston. 
I have some thoughts of returning with 
him to Bristol. I assure you I must ad- 
mire the old thesis of dulce est desipere 
in loco, and hope to unbend my bow very 
soon, and to keep him very loose great part 
of this present long vacation. Pray, how do 
you go on with regard to clerk's fees ? We 
have very few. I am at present laid up 
with a slight fever and sore throat, or else 
perhaps you would have had an intelli- 
gible and legible letter ; it arises from a 
cold, and sero medicina paratur cum mala 
per longas invaluere moras, I have not 
much considered since I left school, but I 
must now lay down my pen to take a dose 
— of what? faith, I know no better than you ; 
suffice it to say, it is a dose of apothecary's 
c 



IS 

stuff To proceed, pray do you hold any 
communication at present with Homer and 
Virgil ? I assure you I often regret that I 
have no time to improve the little know- 
ledge that I already have of those authors ; 
for, as to the rest, I look upon them merely 
as understrappers 5 or, to give you a hom^ 
simile, they are no more to be compared 
to Homer or Virgil (Horace excepted), 
than a poor attorney's clerk is to the lord 
high chancellor of Great Britain. My head 
begins to swim ; indeed, from my letter, I 
am afraid you will think it was rather light 
when I began. As this is the case, I shall 
conclude with my old friend's adage, sit 
mihi mens sana in corpore sano." 

From these extracts it might be sus- 
pected that the writer already directed 
his thoughts to the stage. In the tone of 
his strictures he evidently discovers some- 
thing of the spirit of the author by antici- 
pation, who is roused to exertion by the 



i$ 

perception of errors he hopes to avoid, 
or provoked to competition by the feeble 
though successful efforts he expects to 
surpass. Our poet, like many juvenile stiu 
dents, appears to have been almost an ex- 
clusionist in his literary predilections ; and 
whilst he cherished Pope and Dry den with 
ardour, he was but little sensible to the beau- 
ties of Thomson and Cowper. In comedy 
his beau ideal was formed on Sheridan 
and Congreve : in riper years, although 
he continued to admire those great masters, 
he reserved his profound er homage for 
Shakespeare and Nature. Nor was it only 
on literary subjects that he learned to 
distrust the accuracy of his first impressions 5 
he ceased to anticipate with complacency 
his future advancement in a profession 
in which he discovered nothing to satisfy 
the mind or interest the heart ; externally, 
however, he was diligent and active in the 
details of business ; he regularly attend- 
ed the courts, but his spirit went not 
c % 



£0 

with him, and indifference was gradually 
converted into repugnance ; yet he allowed 
himself no voluntary neglect ; and in the 
office surpassed every other clerk in the 
celerity and correctness of his transcripts j 
but as he had the faculty of abstracting 
his thoughts from the parchment submit- 
ted to his pen, he perpetually digressed 
to ideas unconnected with business, and 
by this mental evasion completely frus- 
trated the object for which he had been 
placed in a solicitor's office. Unfortunately, 
the sacrifice of his worldly interests was 
without advantage to his literary pursuits. 
80 many hours were consumed in a super- 
ficial devotion to business, that no leisure 
remained for any regular plan of study, 
or enlarged views of mental improvement. 
Left to himself, he contracted a taste for 
desultory reading. His early predilec- 
tion for satire was confirmed by the con- 
versation of professional associates ; and 
thus was he led to waste his time and 



21 

talents in ungraceful efforts to lash the vices 
and follies of the age. To this circum- 
stance must it be imputed that during 
the first years of his residence in London 
he produced so little poetry worthy even 
of his juvenile pen. To those who desire 
to trace the germs of literary talent, the 
following verses, composed in or before 
1788, may be acceptable. 

Epitaph on Maria P > 



A prey to grief and pain no more, 
Maria sleeps beneath this tomb, 

Whose virtue could no higher soa$, 

Whose beauty could no sweeter bloom. 

Heaven viewed with care its darling pride, 
Too spotless for a world like this ; 

Left her awhile to sweeten here, 

Then snatch'd her for the realm of bliss. 

At morn, in pride of youth, she shone, 
So shines the dew-drop on the rose ; 

At eve, she withered, pale and wan, 
So sinks the dew-drop to repose, 

c3 



22 



To Miss — on her Birth-dag* 

Td hail this bright auspicious day, 

Accept, dear girl, the votive lay, 

Which merit such as thine requires. 

Which beauty prompts, and love inspires. 

Nor would 1 bend at flattery's shrine, 

For beauty exquisite as thine, 

Or praise the lustre of thine eye, 

Unless it beam'd with modesty : 

Or paint the cheek's luxurious bloom^ 

Sweet as the lilly's sweet perfume, 

Unless soft pity's trickling tear 

Was often known to harbour there. 

Beauty's a meteor's short-lived blaze. 

That sinks unheeded while we gaze, 

And void of merit ill can claim 

That praise which vicious deeds would shame : 

Oh ! may each circling year like this, 

Be pregnant with some future bliss ; — 

Still find thee young — still hail thee fair, 

Nor rack'd with pain — nor craz'd with care. 

And when the cank'ring hand of time 

Shall feed remorseless on thy prime — 

When from thy cheeks the roses fly, 

When fades the lustre of thine eye ; 

Oh ! may each year, that steals a grace* 

Implant a virtue in its place ; 

And when the shell no longer blooms, 

Hibrich the gem which it entombs, 



23 

The following extract from a cotempora- 
neous poem is in a better strain, and exhi- 
bits the rudiments of the author's dramatic 
blank verse. The hero of this piece is an 
unfortunate man who languishes in prison 
by the flat of a remorseless creditor. After 
an exordium, in which he feelingly reproves 
the careless sons of luxury, he thus apostro- 
phizes the author of his calamity. 

And thou, presumptuous wretch ! whose iron soul 

Has bound these fetters round my aged limbs, 

And laid thy gripe where misery's pressing load 

Sore gall'd before ; what urg^d thy daring hand 

To cramp a spirit freeborn as thy own ? 

A soul that bears the image of thy God, 

Passions that rise as high, and cry as loud 

For quick enjoyment : — appetites as keen, 

And hopes as daring ; — an ear as finely form'd 

To catch the mingled melody of sound 

From harmony's full choir ; — an eye as keen 

To drink from beauty's glance the ray of hope, 

Or skim o'er nature's variegated hues, 

Till fancy surfeits on the fairy scene 

Herself has drawn. Thinkest thou yon bed of sweets 

Sheds not as sweet a perfume to my sense 

As e'er it did to thine ; or that yon board, 

With daintiest viands spread, with equal zest 

Regales not him that murmurs in this cell ? 

c4 



24 



Yon shiv'ring wretch, 
That wears the ragged livery of woe, 
On whose wan cheek black melancholy sits 
To steal the rose away, and sable o'er 
The lilly's sickling bloom, whose famish'd sense 
Feeds on the superfluities of pride, 
And luxury's scant gleanings, oft withheld 
From wantonness of waste — ask thou of her, 
For she has chronicled each hour of woe, 
When wildest raged the storm, and the rude wind 
Has loudest roar'd with desolating sweep ; 
And she will point to yonder refted tower, 
Beneath whose brow she brav'd the batt'ring storm, 
That shrunk with hideous crush the crumbling pile ; 
Ask thou of her, where sorrow saddest reigns, 
And she will tell thee of some church-yard's gloom, 
Where oft, in concert with the drizzling dew, 
At night's sad hour she shed the idle tear 
On some rude stone, and envied the cold dust 
That slept beneath. Yet she's a queen to me. 
The tempest past, her eye can wander o'er 
All nature's chequer'd tints and blooming hues, 
Mingled in sweet confusion ; and when the sun 
Gilds her wan cheek, drinking the falling tear, 
And flings a warm beam thro' her tatter'd cloak, 
Smiles, such as glimmer thro' a wintry cloud, 
Illume her hollow cheek, as the pale lamp 
Lightens the gloomy aspect of the tomb. 

And thou, fair village, 'erst my fond retreat, 
When hope spun fair her glitt'ring web of joy 
In fancy's loom, to cheat the roving eye 



m 



Of inexperienc'd youth, whose sweets among 

I've stray'd so oft, and trod thy broider'd vales 

E'er chanticleer, shrill herald of the morn, 

Had hail'd the blushing east with neck outstretched, 

And crest high flaming, or the soaring lark, 

Borne on the buoyant bosom of the air, 

High quiv'ring caroll'd loud her matin song ; 

E'er yet the sun had shot his infant beam 

To chase the vapour from the mountain's brow ; 

While yet the dew-drop glitter' d on the thorn, 

And silver'd o'er the mead, untouch'd, as yet, 

By ruddy Phoebus, or the heavy tread 

Qf new-wak'd villager, or daintier step 

Of milk-maid lightly tripping o'er the path 

Of yonder church-yard, where she stopp'd awhile 

To ask the sexton, busy at his work, 

Whose was the new-made grave ? and then began 

In rustic mood, to moralize awhile 

On what the parson said, that all must die ; 

And ruminate how oft the bell had toll'd 

Since she remember'd. Oh ! it joy'cl my soul 

To see the big tear start into her eye, 

And bathe the honest glow upon her cheek, 

To think how death had thinn'd the village tribe. 

Perhaps for me, (sad meed of sympathy), 

She since has wasted many an idle tear, 

Who oft have met her near my custom'd oak, 

And stayed her speed, while from the briar'd copse 

The motley thrush chided the gurgling rill 

That marr'd her melody ; and well I ween 

The aged pilgrim who, with look devout, 

And eye uplifted, greeting all that past, 



26 



Sat at rhy gate, has missed his eustom'd meal ; 
Perchance he has not found an ear so prompt 
To listen to his long-drawn tale of woe — 
An eye so apt to weep when it is done. 
Unpractis'd he to whine his woes aloud, 
(Grief's clam'rous harbinger), and if perchance, 
Nor the big care that sat upon his brow, 
Or sorrow's trace, that mark'd his furrow'd cheek, 
Could wrench from avarice the niggard boon, 
He shook his silver' d beard, and murmur'd not ; 
Or if he murmuj'd, 'twas but with a smile, 
A smile that, whilst it chid, forgave the wrong."* 

It would be frivolous, if not invidious 
to multiply specimens of his juvenile 
compositions, which can only interest as 
they mark the gradual developement of 
talents, and are merely useful as they check 
the rigour with which literary censors 
sometimes scan the pretensions of youthful 
writers. There are few authors who have 
not become sensible to the aukwardness of 
their first attempts, or who have not to 
lament the time consumed in unprofitable 

* It will be seen that this line was afterwards trans- 
ferred to his tragedy. 



£7 

experiments to elicit latent genius; and 
often has humiliation been the vigil of 
triumph, and self-reproach the earnest of 
excellence. 

At this period it is probable that Mr. 
James Tobin might have challenged pre- 
cedence of his brother in poetry. Before 
Ire quitted Oxford he had proposed to pub- 
lish, in conjunction with John, a small 
volume of poems ; but criticism appears to 
have spoilt him for an author : he had at 
least learned to judge his own productions 
with rigour ; and the scheme was finally 
relinquished.* During an excursion which 
he afterwards made to the continent, he 
was vainly stimulated to literary enterprize 
by his adventurous brother, who in the 
meantime had finished a satire of 500 lines, 
which was not destined to reach the press. 

* Many of these pieces afterwards appeared in the 
Anthology which was published in 1800. 



28 

The following letter, addressed to Mr. 
James Tobin, claims insertion, as it contains 
the political tenets to which the poet ad- 
hered through life. The mildness and libe- 
rality of his character were ill suited to the 
turbulence of faction, or the exclusiveness 
of party ; and he was therefore usually left 
alone to maintain the single-minded inde- 
pendence of his principles. 

" London, December, 1792. 
H The most current report here is, that 
Mr. Pitt is privately negociating with the 
French, to whose cause, during the inglo- 
rious crusade of kings and emperors, I 
wished well ; but now that they are pro- 
ceeding to invade the peace of countries 
which have avowed no hostility to theirs, I 
must freely own I feel the same sort of dis- 
gust at their conduct, as that which pos- 
sessed my mind on seeing their own country 
invaded by a league of despots. Admitting 
the goodness of their motive, that of giving 



29 

universal liberty to mankind, they can have 
no right, either natural or political, to in- 
culcate any doctrines by force. The 
argumentum baculinum never produced 
conviction ; and the wars which deluge 
kingdoms with blood to establish an opinion^ 
never yet gained a single proselyte : so far 
from it, that I firmly think nothing can root 
a persuasion of the mind so strongly as 
persecution. It is for this reason I lament 
the present growing system of mental 
tyranny in my own country ; that horrible 
inquisition over the mind of man — that 
controul upon his most noble, his rational 
faculties — that embargo upon words and 
phrases which is lately established, and 
which resembles the argument of Peter in 
the Tale of a Tub, who, to convince his 
brothers that a peck loaf is a shoulder of 
mutton, says, — I shall use but one plain ar- 
gument, which is, " By G — 1 if it is not as 
good mutton as any in Leadenhall market !" 
—Now, though such an argument, naturally 



so 

enough, did not convince the brothers of 
their mistake, yet, like the present system 
of colonelling, (as if you could turn a 
man's brains in a vice) it made them bold : 
and such, I am afraid, is the object of the 
present swell and commotion : for I am 
convinced the Grumbletonians are not many ; 
and what signifies stopping a man's mouth 
if his eyes are to remain open ? Indeed I 
think, on every consideration* this muz* 
zling system a very bad one ; for till people 
are born without reasoning faculties, or, 
having them, till you have found out a 
method of giving the coup de grace to the 
powers of thinking, men will ruminate ; and 
if their thoughts are inflammatory, to pre- 
vent their being violent, you should allow 
them a vent. I would say much more on 
this subject, if I could hear any argument 
advanced why a man should not speak his 
thoughts ; and I think still no man will 
ever suffer in this country for delivering his 
sentiments in decent and sober language. 
5 



31 

Having no news to communicate, I could 
be very profuse on this subject, but have no 
time. Much I wish to see you in town. Do 
you accompany my brother in the spring, 
or do you come before ? The muses I have 
almost forgot, though I shall have some- 
thing to say to you on the subject. If want 
of the irritamenta malorum should check 
your otherwise well-disposed thoughts to a 
trip to town, let not that stop you : I have 
at present some few shots in the locker. 
Your lines, addressed to a fair botanist, 
make me acquainted with the subject. The 

specimen you sent I liked much. (in 

the language of kings) salutes you, as does 
your affectionate brother, 

" John Tobxn." 
JEcce signum. 

The poem alluded to was addressed to a 
lady on commencing the study of botany at 
the Hot Wells ; and is submitted to the 
reader's judgment. 

Ere yet, she bends her steps to yonder hills, 
Where wide the purple heath with fragrance fills 



32 



The gladsome gales that waft in conscious pride 
The wealth of distant worlds on Avon'$ tide. 
Descend, O Muse, to guard the fair one's fate, 
And tell the dangers that her steps awaj,t — 
Say, shall the god possess with restless fears, 
That heart ne'er soften'd but with pity's tears — 
Shall that fair bosom, where no troubles dwell, 
With love's deep sighs and raging tempests swell ? 
Yet, as o'er Flora's varied stores you bend, 
Those hidden ills upon your steps attend. 
Soon as the spring the verdant scene displays, 
And Sol uprises with redoubled rays, 
All Nature smiling, seems with joy to move, 
And hails the presence of prolific love. 
Where Rosa a blushes 'midst the num'rous train 
Who woo the fair one, and not woo in vain^ 
There spreads the little god his treacherous snare, 
There bends that bow, so fatal to the fair, 
Or gently hovers 'neath the cooling shade, 
Where six bold youths b attend a modest maid, 
Where Lelia's cheek reclines with love oppress'd, 
Whiter than falling snow or Anna's breast ; 
Where, too, great Ulmus lifts his massy limbs, 
While clasping ivy round his body climbs ; 
Where coy Silene spurns the sun-bright ray c , 
Or Helianthus d meets the blaze of day : 



a The rose of the class Polyandria, or many males. 
b Lelia, of the class Hexandria, or six males. 
* Closes at the sun's approach. 
d Helianthus moves with the 51m. 



33 



Where fair N}'mphea e rises from the flood ; 
Where white Hibiscus f dies imbrued with blood ; 
Where short-liv'd Cistus s quits the burning plain, 
Or bold Nigella h seeks her captive swains. 
Here, too, the loves their lawless revels hold, 
Where Vitis * arms in many a twining fold, 
Clasp the tall Thyrsus, and inflame the soul 
Of each fond youth who tastes the madd'ning bowl. 
E'en on the craggy rock's aspiring height, 
Lost in the rolling cloud from human sight, 
The ardent Muschus k seeks his little mate, 
And there, regardless of the storms of fate, 
Tells his soft tale beneath the mountain's snow, 
Nor envies nobler swains their loves below. 
Aug. 1792. 

There can be no doubt that the subject 
alluded to in the foregoing letter was no 
other than the drama, to which the younger 
Tobin began to fix his vacillating attention. 
The fondness which he almost in infancy 
imbibed for theatrical amusements, had 

e Nymphea, the water-lilly. 

f Hibiscus, whose petals, before they fall, change to 
a fine red. 

s Cistus, whose petals fall in a few hours. 

h In the Nigella, the females bend forward alternately, 

1 Vitis, the vine. 

k Muschus, the moss. 

D 



34 

acquired the energy of a ruling passion. 
But it was no longer as a simple recreation 
that he attended the first representation 
of every new play ; or ransacked libraries, 
public and private, for dramatic volumes ; 
or devoured with avidity every anecdote 
illustrating the habits and studies of dra- 
matic authors. Convinced that he could 
never arrive at eminence in his profession, 
he sought to occupy his mind with some 
literary pursuit more congenial to his ta- 
lents and inclinations. As his judgment 
ripened, he became sensible that he could 
not obtain a distinguished place in the 
walks of didactic or heroic poetry : he dis- 
covered that satire was not his forte ; and 
that his simple and almost spontaneous 
lyrics were better calculated to inspire 
delight, than his more ambitious compo- 
sitions. He had repeatedly exercised his 
flexible powers on a variety of subjects; 
and the result of these experiments al- 
lowed him not to doubt, that his real 
7 



35 

strength was in versatility. What he wanted 
in force he supplied by vivacity : without 
the depth of an original thinker, he had 
a felicity in appropriating to himself the 
ideas of others, that assumed the merit of 
novelty, and rivalled its attractions. In 
the career of authorship he appears to have 
been rather an active speculatist, than a 
daring adventurer; he explored no new 
regions of poetry, but selected with pecu- 
liar skill the spot most susceptible of cul- 
tivation and embellishment. Of materials, 
although he possessed no original mine 
of wealth, he had access to many auxiliary 
funds ; and in literature, was in a manner a 
citizen of the world, who carried everywhere 
his passport and his privilege. He felt that 
he had received that measure of poetical 
talent, which enables the dramatist to aspire 
to distinction. This impression gave a new 
impulse to his existence : the stage was ever 
present to his imagination ; a succession of 
scenes and personages passed constantly 
d 2 



36 

before his mental view ; and if he did not, 
like Goethe, sustain an audible conversation 
with visionary companions, he was sur- 
rounded by an ideal representation, engaged 
in constructing dialogues appropriate to 
certain personages, or in contriving situa- 
tions to exemplify particular humours and 
eccentricities. In attending the inns of 
court, he was sometimes surprised by an 
idea, which insensibly expanded to a scene: 
in traversing the streets he often composed 
the single stanzas of a song, and at the close 
of every day was accustomed to insert in 
a common-place book, whatever happy 
thoughts had occurred in its progress; 
and this repertory of wit and fancy after- 
wards furnished materials for his operatic 
pieces. During his clerkship he produced 
but one finished piece, and that was a farce, 
of which mention will be made in its 
proper place. 

At the expiration of his clerkship, 



37 

Tobin continued in the same office, 
with the expectation of being admitted to 
partnership ; but having learnt that he 
could not obtain this advantage without 
superseding the claims of a senior clerk, 
who was in equity entitled to the prefer- 
ence, he insisted that this gentleman 
should be included in the arrangement ; 
and to obviate the objections which were 
suggested to the admission of two distinct 
names in the firm, he proposed to divide 
with his friend his share of the concern, 
and equally with him to submit to the 
restrictions imposed on a dormant partner. 
With this arrangement all parties were 
satisfied * \ but the poet appears to have 
gained neither leisure nor liberty by 
his nominal independence ; with an alien- 
ated mind he persisted in his official 
labours, whilst it became every day too 

* This connexion subsisted until Mr. Wildman's 
death ; after which Tobin and his friend entered into 
an independent partnership. 



38 

palpable that he would never be able to 
attach himself to business : whether he 
admitted or resisted this conviction, he was 
too happy in the consciousness that he had 
discovered the true bias of his mind, to 
waste one moment in unprofitable regrets, 
although he appears by. the following letter 
to have been cruelly impeded in his 
favourite pursuit, 

" 30th July, 
" I have hitherto deferred answering your 
last, in hopes of being able to give you 
some satisfactory intelligence of my dra- 
matics, which however I cannot yet do; 
the opera is in Mr. Harris's hands, and 
waits for his judgment \ and the farce, which 
is less material, I have not yet determined 
upon trying at Covent Garden : however, 
both of them shall certainly take their chance 
(if I can effect it) the ensuing winter. I 
have not been quite idle since you left town, 
having entirely completed a tragedy of four 



89 

acts, and written songs and part of the 
dialogue for another opera, which I hope 
to finish also soon after the theatres open ; 
(these I shall bring with me to Bristol, and 
have your advice and assistance in). I have 
some other dramatic designs floating in my 
fancy, which Ihope some time or other to rea- 
lize, and give to them a local habitation and 
a name. I find the cacothethes dramaticce 
increases so much upon me, that had I time 
and independence, I think I should under- 
take in that way some enterprise of great 
pith and moment y but the scraps of time 
I occasionally dedicate to my muse, will 
not allow of the trial. My chief difficulty 
is in getting good plots, or in making them, 
which I think you will be able to give me 
great help in ; and when we meet I mean: 
to have much serious conversation with you, 
upon this subject." 

The tragedy thus incidentally mentioned* 
stands singly amongst the author's various 

d 4 



40 



productions; and it may perhaps be doubted 
whether he was calculated to succeed in 
this peculiar department of the, drama. He 
had the eye and the ear of a poet,— -a fancy 
ever flexible and animated, — a felicitous 
selection of language, — an admirable adroit- 
ness in scenical arrangement— he delighted 
in elevated sentiments, and expressed them 
with appropriate energy : occasionally he 
had pathos, and often bursts of sponta- 
neous eloquence : but he possessed not the 
awful faculty of revealing to the eyes of 
man the image of his secret soul ; nor was 
he often elevated by his imagination to that 
higher region of passion, in which the tra- 
gic bard discovers with exultation his na- 
tive element. In this solitary effort, we 
have howeyer a proof that he had ori- 
ginally ambitious aspirations after dramatic 
supremacy ; and that had fortune permitted 
him to follow the impulse of feeling, he 
might have attained a higher rank in li- 
terature, and transmitted to posterity a 
still nobler name. 



41 

Considered as a dramatic exercise, this 
four-act piece is an interesting specimen 
of the author's early progress ; the language 
is often not less finished, than that of his 
riper essays ; but it betrays an ambition for 
ornament and imagery, which his mature 
judgment rejected. Even at this early pe- 
riod, his blank verse flows with a facility and 
freedom never to be attained by the ordi- 
nary class of dramatic writers ; but it offers 
no example of the nervous elegance after- 
wards exhibited in the Curfew, the Indians, 
and the Honey-moon. It is unnecessary to 
expatiate on the defects to be discovered 
in this juvenile play, which are precisely 
such as might have been expected from an 
unpractised writer. The dramatis personae 
are obviously wanting in discrimination and 
consistency ; and although the author might 
in 1794 consider this work as finished, he 
afterwards discovered that it was but an 
outline, of which neither the situations 
nor the characters were fully developed, 



42 

Impressed with the belief, that legitimate 
tragedy would not be accepted from an 
undistinguished writer, he deferred the task 
of revision till he should have prepared the 
way for its favourable reception by some 
popular drama. But this period never ar- 
rived till it was too late to profit by the 
circumstance* 

To gain access to the stage, was the serious 
business of Tobin's life : to attain this ob- 
ject, he submitted to lower the tone of his 
ambition, and in a manner to recast his ideas 
— almost to remodel his mind. It is only for 
those who are accustomed to literary compo- 
sition to estimate the difficulty, or to calculate 
the disadvantage which must inevitably be 
experienced in passing from the sublime to 
the familiar, in exchanging passion for hu- 
mour, and substituting puns and equivoques 
for eloquence and magnanimous sentiments. 

Although Tobin loved not music, he had 



43 

been long addicted to lyrical compositions : 
he therefore determined to make his first 
advances to the stage in a comic opera, 
the subject of which was borrowed from 
Brome's pleasing comedy of the Merry 
Beggars or Jovial Crew, the beggars being 
metamorphosed into gypsies, certainly less 
romantically attractive than their proto- 
types. The following extracts., however, do 
credit to the author's lyrical powers. 

SCENE, a Wood. A T>ance, and Chorus of Gypsies, 

AIR. 

O'er the heath, through the wood, 

And the wintry flood, 
Unfriended by fortune we roam, 
No roof keeps us warm, 
Yet we weather the storm, 
And though strangers, we still are at home, 
Merrily, 
Cheerily, 
Pass we the day, 
And the night, 

By the light 
Of that slew worm 
The glow-worm, 
Happily pass away. 



44 



We are ragged and poor, 

What can fortune do more 
To vex and to spite us than now, 
Yet contented we look 
For the clear running brook, 
And the berries which redden the bough. 
Merrily, &c. 
(They all retire but Lucy and Olivia, who, disguised as 
gypsies, come forward.) 
Olivia. Well, Lucy, what d'ye think of our gvpsey 
life ? 

Lucy. I'm heartily sick of it already. 
Olivia. Now I am quite enraptured with it. It gives 
us all the privileges of women of quality ; we keep our 
own hours ; may have as many lovers as we chuse, and 
make our own complexions ; and though we have the 
whole world for our habitation, we pay neither house- 
rent nor window-tax. 

Lucy. Go : you were always a madcap : but what will 
the old folks say, when they find we have eloped ? 

Olivia. Advertise us for a couple of stray spinsters — 
or perhaps insert a tempting paragraph in all the coun- 
try newspapers, that if the two young ladies who lately 
eloped from their father's house will return to their dis- 
consolate friends, they shall be kindly received, and the 
past entirely forgotten. 

Lucy. Heigh-ho ! Would I were at home again. 
Olivia. What ! and a slave to your mother's caprice, 
and your father's obsiinacy. 

Lucy. Liberty is sweet, to be sure ; but we purchase 
it too dearly, when the price is a broken heart. 



45 

AIR. 

A linnet pilfer'd from his nest, 

Consigned to Chloe's care, 
Fed by her hand, warm'd by her breast, 

No favour'd rival there ; 
Still felt his little bosom beat 

To frolic wild and free, 
And left his happy safe retreat, 

For truant liberty. 

He rov'd, nor thought of Chloe's grief, 

Her ill requited love, 
Till Autumn shook the falling leaf, 

And Winter swept the grove ; 
He heard the tempest with a sigh 

Wild thro' the forest rave, 
Flew back, and with repentant eye, 

Implor'd to be a slave. 

Through the intervention of a friend, 
this opera was presented to the manager 
of Covent Garden, who declined its ac- 
ceptance. The author had fortified him- 
self against disappointment, by writing 
another piece, decidedly superior to its 
predecessor ; to which he gave the appro- 
priate title of The Robbery, or Your's or 
Mine. Disgusted with the flimsiness and 



46 

insipidity which in general characterize 
operatic pieces, Tobin introduced into this 
piece a considerable portion of the vis 
comica, and invested it with attractions 
perfectly independent of music and scenery. 
At the commencement of his career he 
indulged the hope that he might eventu- 
ally reform the system, almost universally 
established in the production of operatic 
dramas, of making the dialogues merely 
appendant to the songs, and the charac- 
ters and situations subordinate to the 
music. He contended that the operatic 
form did not necessarily exclude sense, 
wit, and humour ; and that it was not im- 
possible to furnish popular and attractive 
songs, which should at once satisfy the 
mind and enchant the ear. He was sen- 
sible of the epidemical mania for music ; he 
repined at the exclusive preference which 
fashion awarded to the fortunate possessor 
of a rich voice, and at the homage which 
a singer usurped from the finest poet or 



47 

the most accomplished actor. He could 
scarcely forbear to stigmatize as affecta- 
tion that overweening passion for sound and 
spectacle, in a country which possesses no 
national music, and among a people gene- 
rally destitute of the aptitudes for musical 
excellence. He conceived, however, that 
it might not be impossible to render even 
this fatuity subservient to the creation of 
a peculiar species of dramatic composition, 
which should at once give scope to the 
powers of the actor and the singer, and 
allow the poet to divide the triumph with 
the composer. This idea was afterwards 
more fully developed in the Fisherman, 
and two or three later pieces. Of Your's 
or Mine the reader will form his own 
judgment. The following beautiful stanza 
would alone establish the author's lyrical 
genius. 



48 



Absence in Love. 

The flower, enamoured of the sun, 
At his departure hangs her head and weeps, 
And shrouds her sweetness up, and keeps 

Sad vigils like a cloister'd nun, 
Till his returning ray appears, 
Waking her beauty, as he dries her tears. 



The following Air is simple and elegant, 

As men who long at sea have been. 
Kindle at nature's robes of green ; 
As joys the pilgrim's thirsting soul 
To hear the living waters roll ; 
As mothers clasp their infants dear, 
And eye them thro' a joyful tear ; 
So lovers meet, 
With rapture greet. 

A3 maids with midnight vigils pale 

Shut up some sweet love-woven tale ; 
As anglers at day's parting gleam, 

Still linger o'er the darkling stream ; 
As exiles bid the world farewell, 

Where all their fondest wishes dwell ; 
So lovers part, 
With breaking heart. 



49 

The opera of Yours or Mine was not 
more fortunate than its predecessor; but the 
unknown applicant resumed possession of 
his piece, with a determination not to be sub- 
dued by disappointment. It might appear 
surprising that he should persevere after a 
second repulse ; but whilst he saw his claims 
supplanted by men, to whom he conceived 
himself to be superior, he could not but 
cherish the hope that he should eventually 
surmount every obstacle, and successfully 
establish his reputation and independence. 
Many circumstances conspired to nourish 
this persuasion : the English stage was at 
that period in a state of unexampled splen- 
dour and prosperity : the erection of a 
new and magnificent theatre which attested 
the progress of luxury, appeared to an- 
nounce the triumphs of taste and refine- 
ment ; and such were the overflowings of 
public liberality, that not only the actor, 
but even the author was permitted to share 
its munificence. The following observa- 
tions are from the pen of a living dramatist, 

E 



50 

whose genius, by a fortunate anticipation, 
has been so cordially acknowledged by her 
cotemporaries, that nothing is left for pos- 
terity, but to record their verdict, 

" There is at present an opinion prevailing 
in regard to dramatic works, which, if just, is 
wholly contradictory to every proof of 
cause and effect, which has been applied 
to the rise and fall of other arts and sciences. 
It is said that modern dramas are the 
worst that ever appeared on the English 
stage ; yet it is well known that the Eng- 
lish theatres never flourished as they do 
at present. When it is enquired why 
painting, poetry, and sculpture decline in 
England, want of encouragement is the 
sure reply ; but this reply cannot be given 
to the question, why dramatic literature 
fails? for never was there such high re- 
muneration conferred upon, every person, 
and every work, belonging to the drama. 
A new play, which from a reputed wit of 
former times would not with success bring 



51 

him a hundred pounds, a manager will 
now purchase from a reputed blockhead, 
at the price of near a thousand, and sustain 
all risk whether it be condemned or not. 
Great, then, must be the attraction of mo- 
dern plays to repay such speculation. It 
follows then, that if the stage be really 
sunk so low as it is said to be, that pa- 
tronage undeserved has. ruined instead 
of advanced genius. Or is it not more 
likely that public favour has incited the 
envious to rail, or at best raised up minute 
enquirers into the excellence of that amuse- 
ment, which adorns a whole nation, and cri- 
ticism sees faults, as fear sees ghosts, when- 
ever they are looked for 



# »* 



This is undoubtedly an alluring picture, 
but it should be remembered, that it was 
traced by a successful and even popular 
writer, who, having securely weathered the 

* Preface to Everij One has his Fault. 
E 2 



52 

storm, could smile at the perils, once so 
formidable and appalling. It will how- 
ever appear, that at the propitious moment, 
when fancy hailed the fairest visions of 
futurity, there existed circumstances most 
unhappily calculated to overwhelm the 
ambitious aspirant with doubt and fear, 
and to crush the efforts of fortitude and 
perseverance. In the superb theatre which 
had risen in Drury Lane, on the scite of 
Sir Christopher Wren's modest edifice, the 
poet looked in vain for that porch of hos- 
pitality, which had been open to his pre- 
decessors. Formerly the drama had offered 
a ready and honourable resource to indigent 
men of genius : no patron was required to 
procure them the boon of courtesy; a 
literary name supplied the best passport 
to attention ; but not even the undistin- 
guished stranger was repelled by rudeness, 
or dismissed with contempt. The ill-fated 
Otway was admitted to this sanctuary ; and 
even Savage, that homeless outcast, without 



53 

a friend, a connection, found in the theatre 
both shelter and protection. Farquhar 
was patronized by Wilks, and Garrick did 
not disdain to lend encouragement to the 
humble Kelly.* From the restoration .to 
the close of George the Second's reign, 
there is scarcely, with the exception of 
Pope and Prior, a poet of any reputation, 
who is not enrolled among the dramatists : 
and to the majority of these candidates, not 
profit, but reputation was the paramount 
object. With the theatre was vested the 
prerogative to rescue talents from neglect, — 
to abridge. the tedious term of literary pro- 
bation, and extort attention for those who 
had long languished in seclusion and ob- 
scurity. To the literary adventurer, it wore 
the aspect of a friendly beacon, inviting to 
hope, and encouraging to perseverance ; 
it allured none with promises of wealth, 
but some it sheltered from penury, and 

* Hugh Kelly,, the well-known Author of False Delicacy. 
E 3 



54 

others it ransomed from ruin or despair ; 
With noble liberality, it embraced every 
object of public and private interest, and 
was at once the temple of fame, and the 
mansion of charity. 

The history of the drama, during great 
part of a century, offers many pleasing ex- 
amples of merit, detected and elicited by 
kindred talent. The actor, naturally the 
poet's ally, was then his patron : men of real 
genius rarely stoop to canvass for fashionable 
suffrage, and still less willingly submit to 
purchase venal protection ; their confidence 
can only be freely given to those who are 
qualified to appreciate their merits, and 
destined to profit by their exertions. 

Some years before Tobin commenced his 
career, this easy communication between 
authors and actors appears to have been in- 
terrupted. A special recommendation be- 
came necessaryto procure for a play an early 
reading, and interest or reputation couM 



55 

alone obtain a favourable hearing, The 
Sibylline oracles were not more ambiguous 
than the responses from time to time com- 
municated to those who were without a clue 
to guide them through the labyrinth ; and 
a chancery suit might terminate during 
the interval that elapsed between the first 
and last word. 

To attempt to explain the causes of this 
revolution in the theatrical world is not 
within the compass of the present work ; 
perhaps that boasted season of prosperity, 
which incited to the enlargement of the- 
atres, and led to a proportional increase of 
expenditure, may have been among the 
primary causes of the change. It is well 
remarked by Schlegel, " that from the viti- 
ated taste in respect to the splendour 
of decoration and magnificence of the 
dresses, the arrangeme.v: of the theatre 
has become a complicated and expensive 
business; whence it frequently happens that 
the main requisites, good pieces and good 
e 4 



56 

players, are considered as secondary mat-* 
ters." In the drama, as in the fine arts, it 
is not always the era of splendour and lux- 
ury* that marks the diffusion or the cultiva- 
tion of real taste. There sometimes exists 
a childish craving for novelty, a fastidious 
affectation of elegance, of a spirit widely 
different from that single-minded love ot 
excellence, which calls forth — which almost 
creates — the talent it adores. Without 
the sacred fire of enthusiasm, the splendid 
altar is raised in vain — without a cordial 
participation of national sentiment, there 
can be no pure and acceptable oblation. 
Forsaken by its protecting divinity, the 
magnificent temple is no longer the sanc- 
tuary, but the monument, of genius. On in- 
vestigation, it would perhaps appear, that as 
the rage for decoration increases, the love 
of the dramatic art declines. When the 
poet is of less importance than the machi- 
nist or the scene painter, and when a 
favourite singer supplants the most accom- 



57 

plished actor, it is in vain to boast of that 
public liberality which is not exerted for 
the protection of national talent. * 

Amongst the evils originating in the 
taste for luxury and spectacle, it was 
not one of the least, that the increased 
scale of expence must inevitably have ren- 
dered the acceptance of a new play a subject 
of more nice and anxious calculation, and 
consequently presented additional impedi- 

* The following observation of Schlegel, in describing 
the extravagance of the Roman theatre, happily illus- 
trates this subject. " When magnificence could be 
earried no farther, they endeavoured to surprise by the 
novelty of mechanical inventions. In this way, a Roman, 
at the burial solemnity of his father, caused two theatres 
to be constructed in honour of him, resting with their 
backs on each other, and made to move in such a manner, 
on a single hinge, that at the end of the play they were 
wheeled round, with all the spectators within them, and 
formed together into one circus, in which combats of 
gladiators were exhibited. In the pleasure of the eyes, 
that of the ears was altogether lost : rope dancers and 
white elephants were preferred to every dramatic enter- 
tainment." 



58 

merits to dramatic authors. In ques- 
tions of moment, distrust is naturally con- 
ceived against inexperience ; and infe- 
xior men^ already known, will in general 
be preferred to untried writers, however 
ingenious. A kind of monopoly is thus 
erected, which leads by turns to the ex- 
clusion of talents, or to the deterioration 
of the dramatic art*, and the powers of 
invention being exhausted, some temporiz- 
ing expedient must be adopted, to pro- 
long the term of popular favour. 

At the period when Tobin commenced his 
career, an opinion appears to have been 
entertained, that nothing like legitimate 
tragedy or comedy, that is, nothing assimi- 
lating to our stock-plays, would be endured 



* Les yeux prompts a se lasser d'objets muets pour le 
coeur et pour l'esprit, solliciteroient de nouveaux plaisirs 
aussitot uses qu* obtenus ; bientdt la monotonie d'une 
sterile variete persuaderoit, que le genie est epuise, et 
tout un si^cle aurait passe sans presque leguer en ce 
genre au siecle suivant, un monument honorable de son 
existence. Discours sur les Arts, par Mons. Quatremers, 



59 

by a modern audience. A knowledge of 
the stage, and of what is technically called 
stage trick, was represented as more es- 
sential to success than the knowledge of 
men and manners, or the possession of taste, 
imagination, and judgment. Whereever 
system thus usurps the place of sense and 
nature, it imposes limitations on the author 
and the actor ; in the latter, abridging the 
exercise of power, whilst with the for- 
mer it stifles the energies of invention.* 

* To judge by the periodical criticisms of the day, this 
mechanical system was universally condemned. No 
journalist, however, exceeds in severity the following 
strictures of a successful writer. " An acute critic 
lately said, in one of those assemblies where conversation, 
though sometimes light, is seldom without meaning, — 
' A comedy, to please in the present day, must be made, 
not written.' It requires no great expanse of compre- 
hension to perceive the meaning of this dogma, the truth 
of which I am equally ready to acknowledge and to de- 
plore : but should it want illustration, it may be found 
every week in a popular piece, where a great actor, 
holding a sword in his left hand, and making aukward 
gestures with it, charms the audience infinitely more 
than he could do by all the wit and observation which 
the ingenious author might have given him, and brings 



60 

It is impossible not to suspect that the 
native vigour of Tobin's mind was in some 
measure warped by the influence of this 
artificial system, to which he perceived 
it would be hopeless to oppose resistance. 
Fortunately, he had acquired a familiar ac- 
quaintance with the mechanism of the stage ; 
and as he was not unskilful in adapting, ac- 
cording to established usage, certain parts to 



down such applauses as the bewitching dialogue of 
Cibber and of Farquhar pants for in vain. The patient 
developement of character, the repeated touches which 
colour it up to nature, and swell it into identity and 
existence, we have now no relish for : the combinations 
of interest — the strokes which are meant to reach the 
heart, — we are equally incapable of tasting. Not a word 
must be uttered that looks like instruction, or a sentence 
which ought to be remembered. With actors capable 
of all that is intellectual, is it not a pity to condemn 
them to such drudgery? They are no longer necessary. 
Let Sadlers Wells and the Circus empty themselves to 
furnish our stage: the understanding and education 
which distinguish our modern actors are useless tothenu 
Preface to The Town before you. 



61 

certain performers # , his ill success can- 
not be ascribed to ignorance or inexpe- 
rience. It should, however, be remark- 
ed, that he had to enter the lists with 
authors of undisputed talents and well 
merited eminence ; of whom some were 
veterans in literature ; and others at once 
warm with youth, and lipe in experience. 

It was probably from this conviction that 
he had been originally induced to direct his 
attention to operatic pieces, for which hecon- 
ceived it might be comparatively an easy task 
to obtain admission to the stage ; but he 
soon discovered, that in this over populous 
suburb of the drama, he should be abso- 
lutely lost in a crowd of competitors, each 
of whom might perhaps enjoy an advan- 
tage he never possessed, in the favour of 
some popular composer. — JVY/ desperan- 

* Not one of his plays appears to have been acted by 
those performers for whom they were written, yet all 
were successful. 



dum appears to have been Tobin's fa- 
vourite motto. Excluded from tragic or 
operatic entrance to the theatre, he turned 
to comedy; and during an indisposition 
which confined him to his room, beguiled 
his sufferings by writing the play of the 
Faro Table. A much longer interval of time 
was consumed before he could procure for it 
a manager's eye ; but in this more arduous 
task he had now the assistance of his bro- 
ther, who, in 1796, came to reside with 
him in his chambers in the Temple, and 
from this period is to be considered, not 
merely the confident, but almost the part- 
ner of his literary pursuits. 

Abstracted from the ties of consanguinity, 
there existed for this domestic coalition a 
melancholy cause, in an increasing malady 
of sight, by which Mr. James Tobin was not 
only precluded the choice of a profession, 
but thrown on the kindness of his friends 
for the means of pursuing either his studies 



63 

or his amusements. In this painful state of 
privation he gladly embraced the oppor- 
tunity of lodging beneath the same roof 
with a beloved brother ; in becoming whose 
auxiliary, he found an object of sufficient 
interest to fill the blank in his bereaved 
existence. Although reciprocal benefits 
flowed from this happy union, the balance 
was obviously in favour of the dramatist, 
to whom it secured the privileges of home, 
divested of its cares, and supplied the plea- 
sures of society, without its distractions. 
With the tw©^ kinsmen was associated an 
old school-fellow, with whom they lived 
in a degree of intimacy, such as almost sup- 
posed a community of cares and pleasures. 
To this trio were occasionally added a few 
intelligent friends ; and often, in their plain 
and externally gloomy apartment, was 
formed a circle in which philosophers might 
have gathered instruction, and poets caught 
inspiration from the lips of kindred 
genius, 



64 

At their "simple table, where all that 
comes vulgarly under the denomination of 
luxury was proscribed, the mental deli- 
cacies abounded. Every subject of taste 
and science was discussed : opinions, moral 
and political, freely canvassed ; and contro- 
versy enlivened by wit, without the blan- 
dishments of convivial indulgence. From 
associations such as these it was impossible 
but that the younger Tobin should derive 
incalculable advantage \ and from this mo- 
ment there appears a very perceptible im- 
provement in the character and style of his 
compositions. 

The harmony of the brothers was not 
interrupted by occasional discrepancy of 
Opinion : hour after hour passed in amicable 
altercation, and the debatable ground was 
freely traversed on either side. It is, how- 
ever 5 admitted, that on subjects connected 
with his brother's interests, Mr, James 



65 

Tobin was not easily induced to be silent ; 
and with the earnestness of genuine affection 
he continued to animadvert on those habits 
of thoughtless improvidence which, in their 
school days, had rendered the poet an 
unsafe depositary for Mr. Webbe's Christ- 
mas gifts -, and which, in riper years, per- 
petually subjected him to imposition and 
inconvenience. The love of order was a 
prominent feature in the elder TobiuV cha- 
racter : to his personal interests he was even 
more indifferent than his brother, and equal- 
ly incapable of admitting to his breast one 
sordid thought or selfish sentiment; but 
he cherished prudence as the basis of ge- 
nerosity, and exacted regularity, as essential 
to usefulness. 

In every action of life, accustomed to 
regulate his conduct by fixed principles, 
he could not help deploring the poet's ha- 
bitual neglect of those minor duties, to 
which he justly attached importance. His 



66 

reproofs were often conveyed in a tone of 
raillery, and always received by the delin- 
quent with so good a grace, as proved he 
was utterly incorrigible. The happy se- 
renity of his temper was unalterable by 
chance or circumstance ; and whether he 
missed the money he had dropt from his 
purse, or discovered the premature dila- 
pidations in his wardrobe, or listened to the 
objurgations of his affectionate monitor, 
he constantly preserved his gaiety and good 
humour. 

On some occasions, the brothers appeared 
to change characters ; when a rejected play 
Was returned from the manager, it was Mr. 
James Tobin that appeared to suffer, whilst 
his brother broke the ominous seal with 
smiling composure. Never were two men 
more perfectly formed to harmonize, to unite 
together; they must know little of the hu- 
man heart, who would require to be inform- 
ed, that the difference of temperament, the 

7 



partial opposition in habits and conduct, by 
rendering them more completely depen- 
dent on each other, contributed to rivet 
the ties of attachment. It was re- 
marked of the poet, that in his literary- 
capacity, his ordinary habits of improvi- 
dence were completely inverted, since he 
hoarded even his lyrical stanzas with such 
jealous care, that he could seldom be in- 
duced to lend a single song to any pe- 
riodical publication. Even his social in- 
stincts, originally so strong and ardent, con- 
fessed the supremacy of his master passion ; 
and, attached as he was to his brother's 
society, he gladly availed himself of his 
absence to write in a solitary apartment; 
not even his faculty of abstraction render- 
ing him indifferent to the privileges of 
quiet and seclusion. 

No sooner was Mr. James Tobin settled 
in the Temple, than the Faro Table be- 
came the immediate object of his attention : 
f 2 



68 

and after many delays and difficulties he at 
length succeeded in procuring for it the 
perusal of Mr. Sheridan, by whom it was 
at first so warmly approved, that it was 
even read in the Green Room, with a 
promise of being performed the ensuing sea- 
son. Suspense is inseparable from the poet's 
destiny. With Tobin, however, this was an 
interval of pleasing anticipation, since he 
flattered himself he had at length opened a 
fruitful vein, and in his alacrity to pursue 
the advantage, completed a second comedy. 
When the season arrived, Mr. Sheridan was 
no longer accessible ; nor was it without 
reiterated importunities that Mr. James 
Tobin obtained a definitive answer, and 
with it the play, which, on reconsideration* 
was discovered to bear too close a resem- 
blance to the School for Scandal, and (still 
worse) to contain certain allusions which 
might be suspected of an invidious meaning 
to a titled dowager who kept a faro bank. 
Till this moment the author had not been 



69 

aware of this lady's existence. > ecluded 
in his habits, he seldom entered the sphere 
of fashionable life, and was little acquainted 
with its diurnal tales of scandal. It had 
been his object to introduce a female gam- 
bler, but he perhaps scarcely believed that 
the exact prototype could be found in human 
nature. With regard to the other objection, 
it was impossible he should stand acquitted 
either to himself or his friends of a strongly 
marked resemblance to the chef cTceuvre 
of Sheridan ; but it was such as appears to 
have been rather caught from the sympathy 
of enthusiastic admiration, than produced 
by cold and artificial imitation. 

On the whole, the unsuccessful issue of 
this negociation was palliated by many con- 
soling reflections. To have arrested the 
attention of a Sheridan ; — in siteh a judge 
to have created even a temporary bias in 
his favour, was highly flattering to a young 
and hitherto undistinguished author : even 
f 3 



70 

the too obvious resemblance, however fatal 
to his hopes, was not mortifying to his 
self love : and when he looked at the mar- 
ginal notes which that great master of the 
art had traced in his manuscript, he was 
disposed to consider them as the infallible 
predictions of his future fame. 

But although his sanguine temper re- 
sisted disappointment, it did not render 
him insensible to impartial criticism ; and 
his second comedy (called the Reconcili- 
ation) being disapproved by his brother, 
was not offered to acceptance. With his 
usual good sense, he perhaps perceived that 
something more than brilliant dialogue and 
stage effect was necessary to render legiti- 
mate comedy perfectly acceptable to the 
public. Perhaps, too, he was ready to 
acknowledge, with characteristic candour, 
that he possessed not the native richness of 
humour which makes satire relishing, and 
wit delightful. His retired habits were 



71 

unfavourable to the study of men and 
manners ; even the enviable faculty of 
abstraction, to which he had so often owed 
immunity from care and impertinence, 
might somewhat blunt that exquisite quick- 
ness of perception, that rapid yet compre- 
hensive glance of observation, which is so 
eminently useful to a comic writer. The 
most active powers of invention require to 
be renovated and sustained by materials 
drawn from living nature — Small indivi- 
dualities are the feeders of imagination. To 
produce original combinations, it is ne- 
cessary that the dramatic poet should often 
quit his retreat, and digress from the or- 
dinary track of his mental associations. He 
must descend familiarly to the haunts of 
men, to make himself perfectly acquainted 
with the various classes of society, and 
acquire the language of universal nature. 
Without such occasional aberrations, some 
fresh and vivid touches must always be 
wanting to his delineations ; and even the 
f 4- 



72 

happiest productions will leave the impres- 
sion of effort or suggest the suspicion of 
imitation. 

In the versatility of his powers he had 
another motive for deserting comedy, which 
gave no scope to the picturesque imagery 
that floated on his fancy, or to the elevated 
moral sentiments that flowed spontane- 
ously from his nervous pen. This original 
propensity to lyrical poetry was not extin- 
guished: and, like Frank in the Jovial 
Crew, when he heard the nightingale, he 
was unable to resist the invocation to 
poetry and nature. But before he quitted 
the more busy haunts of the drama, he 
produced the farce of The Undertaker, 
which, though never performed, has always 
been admired by theatrical readers. This 
was the last piece to which he prefixed a 
prologue, and the manner in which it was 
produced illustrates those habits of abstrac- 
tion which attended him through life. In 



73 

a country walk with his brother and their 
school friend, he suddenly became inat- 
tentive to the conversation, and followed 
their steps in total silence. Mr. James 
Tobin at length demanding the subject of 
his reveries, he confessed he had been en- 
gaged in composing the finishing lines to 
he prologue of a farce, which he meant to 
read to them the following day. 

With scenes like these the author of to-night 
Means not your gentle senses to affright. 
An Undertaker of no common sort, 
His only pride it is, to make you sport : 
Who humbly hopes, whilst others of the trade 
By funerals furnished have their fortunes made, 
A modest Undertaker here might thrive, 
Whose wish it is to keep you all alive. 

But the prologue he had been eager to 
finish was not put in requisition, for the 
happy moment of representation was never 
destined to arrive. 

Like many other good writers, Tobin con- 
fessed the difficulty he experienced in con- 



74 

structing a good dramatic fable ; but this 
incapacity appears to have proceeded rather 
from caution than slowness of invention. 
Knowledge often diminishes confidence; 
and it was from his quick perception of the 
dangers incident to the undertaking, that 
he so rarely hazarded the introduction of 
a perfectly novel situation ; justly consider- 
ing it safer to occupy some neglected sta- 
tion, which experience had shown to be 
tenable. 

He had long observed that tragi-comedy, 
or, as Schlegel calls it, the old romantic 
drama, was the antient and permanent 
favorite of the English stage, and from the 
brilliant example of the younger Colman, 
was encouraged to assume the liberty of 
our elder writers, in alternating prose with 
blank verse. For the foundation of his 
drama, he chose those old feudal times, 
so congenial with romantic events, and 
naturally requiring the agency of music 



75 

and spectacle. Having carefully traced his 
plan, he soon completed the play, at 
present well known by the appropriate 
name of The Curfew. 

From the commencement of his domestic 
establishment with his brother, it had been 
customary with Tobin to submit every 
play, in the order in which it was produced, 
to the critical ordeal of the few intimate 
friends to whom his projects were confided. 
On such occasions it was usual for the author 
to address his judges with an air of mock 
gravity, sometimes deprecating severity, 
in a short extempore prologue, The play 
was then read aloud, when each was 
free to offer remarks, or to state objec- 
tions, to which he listened with be- 
coming deference, but without visible 
emotion. Although careful to watch the 
impressions of his hearers, he was per- 
fectly sensible that such a select circle 
could form no accurate criterion of popular 
feeling. Scholars and philosophers have 



76 

small share in influencing the decisions of 
a mixed audience ; nor can the general 
effect of a play be correctly ascertained 
from the verdict of a few intelligent men, 
accustomed to form their judgment accord- 
ing to fixed but abstract principles of taste, 
and to institute comparisons with models of 
approved excellence. Before such a tri- 
bunal it was not possible that Tobin should 
escape censure ; since he wrote for represen- 
tation, and was unavoidably compelled to 
lower his standard to arbitrary regulations 
and existing circumstances, in opposition 
to his better judgment. 

On reading The Curfew in the little green- 
room of Benard's Inn, the author, though, 
as usual, severely criticised, was hailed with 
cordial and unequivocal marks of approba- 
tion. It was supposed that the language of 
this play, which constitutes one of its pri- 
mary attractions, could not fail to recom- 
mend it to the critical rulers of Drury Lane. 



77 

It was therefore offered to that theatre ; and 
submitted to the perusal of Mr. Wroughton, 
a manager eminently possessing discrimina- 
tion, liberality, and taste; but, unfortu- 
nately, not invested with that supremacy, 
which could have rendered his good 
wishes effective. As good actors are almost 
necessarily excellent judges of dramatic com- 
position, it could not escape this gentle- 
man's discernment, that the drama presented 
to him was from no ordinary pen ; but as he 
at the same time discovered in it certain re- 
dundancies and peculiarities which might 
militate against its success, he immediately 
restored the copy to the author, candidly 
stating his objections, and promising, when 
these were obviated, to give it his strongest 
recommendation to the person or persons 
in whom was vested the power of accept- 
ance. In these emendations, the confiden- 
tial friends of Tobin heartily concurred; 
he therefore carefully revised his drama, 
beginning with the title, which was changed 



78 

from The Norman, to The Curfew. The 
next part of the process was, probably, to 
curtail the part of Fitzharding, which evi- 
dently belongs to tragedy; and it is a 
blemish of the play, that the poet's vigorous 
conception of this character is not sus- 
tained by corresponding dignity of action. 
To" the fable a primum mobile is obviously 
wanting : the interest is not suffici- 
ently concentrated, and sympathy escapes 
in the multiplicity of objects. A few 
of the situations are, though striking, 
artificial : but in the gentle expostulation 
of Florence with her father are some of 
those beautiful touches of truth and nature 
which never fail to reach the heart. 

I have ever been 
A most obedient child. — From memory's dawn, 
Have hung with silent awe upon your lips, 
And in my heart, your counsels treasur'd up, 
Next to the hallowed precepts of my God. 
But with a new delight my bosom throbb'd, 
When first you talk'd of Bertram. — You observed, 
He was a handsome youth. — I thought so too ; — 
A brave one. -*- My beart beat with fearful joy. 



79 

Not rich, you added : there I heav'd a sigh, 
And turn'd my head aside. But whilst the tear 
Stood on my cheek, you said, that Fortune's gifts 
Were poor, compar'd with Nature. — Then, my father, 
You bade me learn to love him. 

In the same strain is the concluding pas- 
sage of this beautiful scene. 

Nay, my father — 
He is gone, and will not listen to his child. 
Then, since a cruel parent has disowned me, 
Bertram, I am all thine. — 
And now, that I have given up all to thee, 
And cast out every other hope of joy, 
If thou should'st ever treat me with unkindness, 
Reprove me with sharp words, or frowning looks, 
Or (which is keenest agony to those 
Who deeply love) torture me to the soul 
With civil, cutting, cold indifference. — 
No, thou art truth itself, I will not doubt thee. 

To what eminence might not the author 
have aspired, who at this early period * was 
capable of such admirable composition. 
Of bow many exquisite productions may we 
have been deprived by the perverted taste 

* The Curfew was written before the author had 
completed his twenty-eighth year. 



80 

which could remain insensible to such 
genuine merit. 

The Curfew was again presented, but 
although sanctioned by Mr. Wroughton's 
cordial recommendation, was decidedly re- 
jected - y on what real grounds it would now 
be difficult to hazard a plausible conjecture. 
No feasible reason appears to have been' 
alleged ; but it has been suspected that the 
opposition originated in a supposed coinci- 
dence of opinions and sentiments with the 
celebrated author of Caleb Williams ; a work 
which had, it is to be observed, formed the 
basis of a successful play. It is not easy to 
divine what were the sentiments contained 
in The Curfew which could inspire alarm, or 
incur reprobation. Not surely the follow- 
ing speech of Bertram. 

'Tis now too late 
To measure back the dust of my progenitors, 
And stamp it with nobility. — What, then, 
Am 1 to hang my head — creep into corners — ■ 



81 

Because my father was a hind. — I know not 
Why I was pressed into this bustling world ; 
But here I am, and let my deeds proclaim me. 

The concluding speech of Fitzharding is 
in a masterly strain of eloquence and pas- 
sion. 

What you have made me, still expect to find me, 
A man struck from the catalogue of men, 
Exiled from all society — stampt like Cain, 
To wander savage and forlorn. Why, then, 
Revenge be still my solitary comfort ; 
By darkness and by daylight my companion ; 
My food, my sleep, my study, and my pastime. 

In the history of the modern stage there 
is perhaps nothing more disgraceful than 
the unqualified rejection of a drama deci- 
dedly superior to the far greater part of 
cotemporaneous productions. 

From the unfortunate issue of this nego- 
ciation, Tobin had reason to felicitate him- 
self that his secret was unsuspected, and 
that the disappointment of his hopes was 



82 

not liable to that sinister interpretation 
which ignorance and detraction are ever 
ready to pronounce on similar disappoint- 
ments. With the world, it is success alone 
that legitimates pretensions ; and whoever 
is known to have often missed his aim, 
should look, not for sympathy and respect, 
but derision and contempt. It must be the 
inevitable tendency of defeat to create dis- 
trust : even in amiable minds there often 
exists a sort of superstitious persuasion of a 
certain fatality attached to certain indivi- 
duals, which, if it does not extinguish kind- 
ness, at least slackens the efforts of friend- 
ship. The disappointed man, by all but 
magnanimous or enthusiastic souls, is aban- 
doned to his destiny : selfishness adopts the 
language of cautious calculation; and by 
an exaggeration of difficulties, adroitly 
evades the requisitions which might other- 
wise be made on sympathy or kindness. 

But Tobin stood not alone. In his bro- 



83 

ther he possessed a friend not to be moved 
by chance or circumstance : and sustained 
by his encouragement, and that latent 
confidence inseparable from the posses- 
sion of real talent, he determined to 
persevere till he should overcome. His 
literary studies were still confined to those 
hours which should have been given to re- 
creation : from nine till twelve in the even- 
ing being the only portion of time that he 
could dedicate to his favorite pursuit. In 
society, although his conversation was 
spirited and intelligent, he excited no suspi- 
cions of authorship, and was generally con- 
sidered as a sensible man, who cared less 
for money than books, and by his abstracted 
habits was unfitted for business. 

It was often with difficulty that Mr. James 
Tobin repressed the impulse which prompt- 
ed him to do justice to his brother's merits ; 
and when he heard his prudence suspected, 
or his indolence condemned, he was apt to 
g 2 



84 

say, with a secret consciousness of exulta- 
tion, " There is more in John than you are 
aware of;" and by this ambiguous allusion 
to his brother's pursuit, in some degree re- 
lieved the feelings of his affectionate heart. 

Among Tobin's familiar associates there 
were also some well-meaning advisers, who 
exhorted him to think more of his clients, 
and less of managers ; concluding with the 
trite remark, that poets lived and died in 
poverty. To such representations he some- 
times replied with perfect good humour, 
" I shall yet live to be rich, and leave good 
copyhold property behind me," 

To a dramatic probationer there are few 
trials of temper more severe than those ca- 
pricious gusts of popular feeling which 
sometimes lift into notice what was yester- 
day insignificant, and to-morrow shall be 
forgotten. Hitherto Tobin had seen his 
claims superseded by the prescriptive rights 



85 

of celebrity, or the preponderance of 
favouritism : but what was his mortifi- 
cation when, seated in his aerial car, 
amidst humanized sylphs and gnomes — 
Kotzebue suddenly alighted on the English 
stage, of which, almost without being natu- 
ralized, he took absolute possession. To 
account for this phenomenon, it has been 
pretended that there existed a close affinity 
between the English and German schools, 
since they alike disclaimed the oppression 
of scholastic rules, . and constantly asserted 
the rights of truth and nature. Unfortu- 
nately for this argument, the drama of 
Kotzebue bears more affinity to the drama 
of Diderot, than to the primitive stock of 
English poetry. His characters are always 
of the romantic cast — ■ his language rather 
breathes the monotonous falsetto of senti- 
mentality, than the genuine and ever-new 
and varied strain of passion and nature : 
yet it must be acknowledged Kotzebue 
is not destitute of pathos ; his scenes are 
g3 



86 

often picturesque, and by the novelty de- 
rived from foreign manners, they afforded a 
seasonable relief to the mannerism and 
limitation which system had produced on 
the English stage. It certainly would 
have been easy to find many English dra- 
matists to whom he .was indisputably 
inferior in talents and moral feeling ; but 
Fashion declared in his favour, and by a 
whimsical contradiction, the dramatist who 
was held in least repute in the literary cir- 
cles of Germany, became the idol of that 
country which could alone boast of Shake- 
speare. 

" Some years ago. (observes Schlegel), se- 
veral German plays found their way to the 
English stage. — Plays which, it is true, are 
with us the favourites of the multitude, 
but which are not considered by the intel- 
ligent as forming a part of our literature, 
and in which distinguished actors are 
almost ashamed of hearing applause. 



87 

" These pieces have met with extraordi- 
nary favour in England ; they have, properly 
speaking, as the Italians say, fatto furore ; 
though the critics did not fail to declaim 
against their immorality, veiled over by 
sentimental hypocrisy. From the poverty 
of our dramatic literature, the admission of 
such abortions in Germany may be easily 
comprehended : but what can be alleged 
in favour of this depravity of taste in a 
nation like the English, which possesses 
such treasures, and which must therefore 
descend from such an elevation ?" 

It is painful to reflect how much the 
unpatriotic predilection for Kotzebue must 
have depressed and discouraged national 
talents, when the author of Every One has 
his Fault, so capable of enriching our na- 
tional literature with original productions, 
was condemned to waste her fine powers in 
finishing his imperfect sketches, and attempt- 
ing to transfuse into his fantastic groups 
g 4 



distinctness and truth, life and harmony* 
Although Tobin had often submitted his 
better taste to theatrical authority/ he was 
inflexible in his oppositions to the senti- 
mental jargon of this new school, and 
never could prevail on himself to fraternize 
with its founder. The- genius of Sheridan 
was less disdainful, and Pizarro remains 
to commemorate the moment of popular 
effervescence which once prevailed for 
romance and Kotzebue. 

The success of this piece being generally 
attributed to its magnanimous sentiments, 
(to which political events had given interest 
and importance,) Tobin felt his emulation 
excited to produce an American play, and 
whilst he was eagerly . seeking a subject, 
his attention was accidentally directed to 
the recent example of Gen. Bowles (the ac- 
credited ambassador from the Creeks and 
Cherokees to his Britannic Majesty), who 
had spent the winter of 1791 in London. 



89 

Since the days of Plutarch's heroes, 
there have existed few adventurers of spirit 
more intrepid, or more romantic fortunes, 
than this once celebrated American. De- 
scended from British parents, but born in 
Maryland, some years previous to the 
American war, he imbibed in childhood 
the loyal sentiments of his fathers, and at the 
age of thirteen quitted his paternal home to 
join the British camp, where being admitted 
as a volunteer, he already gave indications of 
invincible courage, but being with his 
regiment at Pensacola, he was for some 
slight misdemeanor ignominiously dismissed, 
and abandoned to his fate. In this deso- 
late situation, without money or friends, 
he was protected by certain Creek Indians, 
who had come as trading agents to Pensa- 
cola, and who, compassionating his youth 
and destitute condition, conducted him 
to their native territory ; but their customs 
not permitting an alien to reside among 
them, he was adopted by one of their 



90 

chiefs, and treated with the respect due 
to a soldier. The Creeks being exposed 
to harassment from their Spanish neigh- 
bours in the Floridas, Bowles planned an 
expedition against them, and signalized 
his gratitude and his valour in a series of 
heroic achievements, which obtained for 
him the dignity of a Sachem, with the 
endearing appellation of " The Beloved 
Warriors/' In this character he received a 
deputation, and actually concluded a treaty 
with the British officer by whom he had 
been formerly disgraced. On a subsequent 
occasion, the sentence which had been 
passed against him was annulled, and him- 
self reinstated in the British service*. 

It would have been a daring effort to 
introduce to the stage a living hero, who, 

* Several years ago a biographical sketch of this extra- 
ordinary man's early youth was published, to which the 
subsequent events of his life would form a melancholy 
sequel, since, after all his trials and vicissitudes, he breath- 
ed his last in a Spanish prison. 



91 

though of English extraction, was not 
enrolled in the number of our compatriots ; 
and whose story reflects no credit on our 
country. In one instance indeed, the per- 
sonal and local drama has been completely 
successful. In the Such Things are of 
Mrs. Inchbald, Howard is introduced as 
Halsewell, in the character of a philanthro- 
pist; and this fortunate appropriation was 
acceptable to pride and patriotism, and che- 
rished as an honourable commemoration of 
departed virtue. In the life of Bowles there 
were, however, two passages susceptible of 
theatrical representation ; and both in his 
abandonment by the British officers, and his 
subsequent reception of them in the dignified 
character of a Sachem, he might have be- 
come the object of popular sympathy ; but it 
appears to have formed no part of Tobin's 
plan, to introduce the young Marylander in 
propria persona, and he contented himself 
with generalizing on the character and 
destiny of an accomplished Englishman, 



92 

whom injustice and misfortune had thrown 
on the mercy of an Indian tribe, of which 
he was hereafter destined to become the 
defender and the benefactor. Unfortu- 
nately for his plan, the North American 
Indians are not presented to the mind 
under those romantic features, with which 
the associations of history and poetry have 
invested the Peruvian people ; unhappily, 
too, the accurate acquaintance we have ac- 
quired of their actual modes of existence, 
must inevitably destroy the illusions of the 
imagination. The sombre monotony of 
savage life, offers few materials for drama- 
tic combination ; and in constructing a 
play of five acts, the poet was unavoidably 
obliged to derive his leading incidents from 
the passions and prejudices which pre- 
vail in civilized society. It is difficult to 
account for the author's selection of his 
subject, unless we can suppose him to have 
been influenced almost unconsciously by 
the impulse he had received from Kotzebue, 



93 

Such was the origin of The Indians, a play 
which, allowing for the irregularity of 
its fable, contains many striking pas- 
sages, and some dramatic situations. 

The soliloquy of Zoa., in contemplating 
the miniature of a supposed rival, is a charm- 
ing delineation of female jealousy. 

Let me look on it — What a face is here ! 

How fresh the red and white of her complexion. 

The parting locks that hang on either side 

Of this fair forehead. — What, his wife ! these lips, 

They can talk many languages^ and sing 

The song of his own country — This white hand — 

Yet shall she be his wife ? — This hand can play 

On many instruments, and knows, by tunes, 

A thousand witcheries to charm him from me. 

I never thought how foul I look'd till now. 

The following indignant exclamation of 
Raymond, is worthy of the author of the 
Curfew ; — 

Away, I have no appetites that need 

A slave, for I am master of myself. — 

Thy dance or song may soothe me ; and I thank thee : 

But for the other offices thou namest, 

Wert thou a dog of but an hour's acquaintance, 

I would not so degrade thee. 



94 

The scene between Esmond and Al- 
manza contains many beauties. The re- 
cital of the former is given with much 
address ; and the progress of his attachment 
to Zoa traced with delicacy and feeling. 

She led me to her hut — brought me fresh food, 
And water from the spring — watch'd o'er my sleep ; 
And when I woke, she gave me food again. 
Thus three long weeks she nurs'd me — and meanwhile 
Taught me her language with a breath so sweet, 
And was so apt a scholar learning mine, 
(For of such little offices as these, 
The mighty sum of love is all made up,) 
That, with reviving health, I drew in that 
Which wanted still a cure ; — and not long after, 
When of the Creeks I was appointed chief, 
Then I remember'd Zoa, and her care 
Of me, at life's extremity. ■ — Yes, then, 
In the full face of our assembled warriors, 
I took her for my wife ; — and shall I leave her ? 
No — not for all the white-complexion'd "dames that 
dazzle Europe. 

The Indian invocation to the manes of 
departed heroes, previous to the sacrifice 
of the prisoners, is full of spirit and 
energy. 



95 

Ye whose death, still unrequited, 
Groans for vengeance from the tomb, 

Hither, from the land of spirits, 
Souls of slaughter'd warriors come. 

The scene between Raymond and Ab- 
dalla offers some striking passages. The 
following speech of Raymond is in a strain 
not unworthy of the Honey-moon. 

Ay, this looks well — thy tread is firm and even : 

Thou bear'st thyself erect — thine hand is steady ; 

There is honest gratulation in thine eye. 

Here is no poison ; each proud look and gesture 

Pourtrays the noble image of a man 

Who holds the cup of comfort to his fellow. 

Pleasure may dance in her full draughts of wine ; 

Health sparkles here. 

The Indians would have* been still more 
worthy of admiration, had not the author, 
in the vain attempt to render the piece 
susceptible of representation, deformed it 
with a barbarism, which he was led to 
consider an indispensable condition of ac- 
ceptance. Having been taught to believe, 



x 96 

that he must provide a part for a particular 
comic performer ; he was induced to invest 
the lover of Almanza with the flippancy 
of a footman, and the vulgarity of a buf- 
foon, and, notwithstanding this concession, 
had the mortification to add The Indians 
to the list of his rejected plays. 

During the two succeeding years, he 
appears to have been wholly employed in 
preparing plots and dialogues for operatic 
dramas. From the steadiness with which 
he pursued this task it is obvious that 
he still entertained the idea of intro- 
ducing a reform in this department of the 
stage, in which he might with reason hope 
to establish his claim to pre-eminence. As a 
genuine lover of the drama, he could not 
witness, without pain, the incoherent series 
of extravagance and incongruity, which, 
under the name of opera, continued to en- 
gross the patronage of fashion ; whilst not 
only good authors, but admirable actoi^ 



97 

were neglected, and the stage itself was ine* 
vitably subjected to degradation and con* 
tempt. He was sensible that to correct this 
evil, something more than criticism or phi- 
losophy was required, and that operatic 
nonsense was only to be displaced by 
productions of a similar species, but superior 
character, in which its volatile fantastic 
features should be ennobled by an expression 
derived from the legitimate drama. He be- 
lieved it to be possible to combine with Spec- 
tacle the charms of poetry and eloquence, 
and to conciliate the rival claims of wit and 
harmony, and of tragical romance with comic 
humour. Such was the system on which 
he often expatiated in familiar conversation, 
and such the principles to which he adhered 
in writing The Fisherman, and two or three 
unfinished operas. In each of these pieces, 
the basis of the story was romance, and 
unfolded in that nervous blank verse, 
which constituted one of his chief merits. 
In The Fisherman, it is true, the author 



98 

appears to have concentrated his strength- 
in the comic scenes, some of which are per- 
haps only inferior to his Honey Moon; 
the songs were written at different inter- 
vals, and through the medium of admiring 
friends, many of them were recited in cer- 
tain literary circles. Of all Tobin's com- 
positions, this appears to have been most 
generally relished and approved by his 
literary associates ; who uniformly ascribed 
to it a novelty and elegance of design — a 
certain romantic fascination, derived from, 
the mingled influence of fancy and 
poetry — and the abrupt, but not un- 
graceful transitions, from the imaginary 
to the vulgar world, which they discovered 
in no former production. Although this 
drama appears not to have ever received 
those finishing touches of the author's 
pen, which diffuse so many nameless beau- 
ties, it was offered for representation, and 
at the suggestion of a manager, compressed 
into two acts; but in this experiment 



99 

the author was singularly unfortunate $ 
and shocked by the mutilation he had in- 
flicted, he willingly consigned it to oblivion. 
The School for Authors, one of his most 
pleasing efforts in comedy, was, in 1800, 
offered and rejected. There is in this play 
one scene, written perhaps from the impres- 
sion of personal feelings, in which the 
author betrays a sensibility that was rarely 
permitted to escape his pen ; it is in the 
interview between Cleveland and his be- 
loved Jane, who, when he announces the 
performance of his play, declares her re- 
solution to witness the representation. 

Jane. I feel it will be a trial, yet don't attempt to 
dissuade me. 1 will seek out some gloomy dim-lighted 
corner of the house, where my varying cheek shall be 
unnoticed — my beating heart unheard ; where hope, 
unperceived, may elevate, and fear depress me : from 
whence, if you are successful, I may bear the tidings 
with the speed of sound ; and if you should fail — but I 
don't think you'll fail — rather than you should fail, I'll 
make a speech to the audience myself. 

Clev. My sweet girl — and what will you say to them ? 

Jane. I will tell them, it is the first fond child of your 
H 2 



100 



fancy ; the growing darling of many anxious day*, of 
some sleepless nights. 

Clev. It is, indeed! 

Jane. That its success will crown the hopes of two 
young and faithful hearts ; and that, if it should fail — 
but it can't fail — it won't fail — I shall break my hearp 
if it fails. 

Clev. Nay, nay ; calm your emotions ; it will come fairly 
and fully before a jury of my countrymen ; and, though 
I fall by their verdict, I will not arraign their justice. 

Unsubdued by opposition, the poet pre- 
served an unalterable conviction, that 
be should ultimately achieve his object; 
and having expressed his willingness to 
embrace any expedient to obtain a single 
introduction to the stage, it was suggested 
by a friend that he should prevail on some 
popular performer to bring out his piece 
for a benefit. This proposal was, there- 
fore, made to Mr. Munden, who, having 
read with approbation a farce which had 
been his most juvenile production, it was 
announced for representation in April 1803, 
by the title of All's fair in Love, or A 
Match for the Lawyer, To the. author 



101 

of The Curfew, this was indeed to launch 
a raft on the ocean, but repeating his motto 
of Nil desperandum, he repaired to the 
theatre on the appointed evening, and with- 
out any visible emotion, took his station 
in the pit, accompanied by his brother, who 
could not so easily divest himself of 
anxious apprehensions. The author, on 
the contrary, declared, that after a momen- 
tary agitation, he became as composed as an 
indifferent spectator. May it not be sus- 
pected, that this apparent indifference dis- 
guised the latent feelings of chagrin and 
Regret, with which he must have contem- 
plated the result of his long and meritorious 
probation ? After all his exertions, his dili- 
gence, his perseverance, he had at length 
succeeded in bringing out a benefit farce, 
and such were the fruits of his long che- 
rished hopes — such the sordid reality of his 
magnificent anticipations. 

The farce, though successful, was not 
h 3 



102 

repeated > and it was suggested to the author 
that he must renounce his claims to the 
production, if he hoped to distinguish 
himself by undertakings of a higher order. 
Wearied with controversy, and almost ex- 
hausted by the unavailing effort to re- 
concile discordant interests, Tobin took 
at length the spirited resolution to write 
according to the dictates of his own mind, 
and without regard to those by-laws of 
the stage to which he had hitherto paid 
observance. A question was one day 
started in his chambers at Bernard's Inn, 
how far it might be practicable to resusci- 
tate the old English comedy, as it existed 
in the age of Shakespeare and Fletcher, 
Mr. James Tobin maintained that this 
suggestion was perfectly feasible, and that 
the effort, if sustained by talent, would 
possess the attraction of novelty. On this 
question the poet appeared to suspend his 
judgment, but finally answered it by pro- 
ducing the comedy of The Honey-moon* 



103 

According to his conceptions, the old school 
of comedy was distinguished by a felicitous 
and luxuriant characterization : abstracted- 
ly, the fable might involve every possible 
extravagance and absurdity ; magic was 
sometimes invoked to assist invention; 
poetry and romance alternately with wit and 
drollery might conspire to its embellish- 
ment; but the basis of all was character; and 
often from a single trait of individuality were 
derived plot — incident — intrigue — de- 
nouement. To illustrate this remark, he 
was accustomed to refer to various come- 
dies of the last age, of which the prominent 
personages had been transferred from the 
page of our elder writers, stript of poetry 
and romance, but less incongruous with the 
modern style of manners. It was another 
feature of the old comedy that it paid no 
observance to national laws and customs, 
since the drama was allowed to constitute 
a fanciful country, not limited to geographi- 
cal lines of division. Truth was required 
in the character, and a certain harmony in 
H 4< 



104 

the design and the sentiments: — beyond 
this, all might be fictitious, or even mar- 
vellous ; the utmost latitude was allowed to 
the poet's invention. 

Tobin had occasion for all his self-posses- 
sion on reading this play (according to 
Custom) to his confidential friends, who, not 
satisfied with attacking that part of the plot 
which is confessedly the least tenable (the 
deception employed by the duke), un- 
pparingly denounced the plagiarism in cha- 
racter, in the extravagance of the story- 
its, incredible incidents, and unsatisfactory 
conclusion. To this the author replied, that 
he had not copied more freely than was 
allowed to modern writers : that with regard 
to tl\e fable, he was entitled to assume the 
privilege always permitted to the old come- 
dy, of being exonerated from a nice observ- 
ance of realities : that it had been his object 
to produce a genuine transcript of the elder 
school ; and if in this he had succeeded, he 
should conceive himself acquitted of his 



105 

obligation. Although these arguments 
might silence cavil, they did not remove 
the impression that such a play would not 
be endured by a modern audience : and 
so decidedly did these critics pronounce 
condemnation, that the author experi- 
enced neither surprise nor disappoint- 
ment, when The Honey -moon was rejected 
at Covent Garden theatre. At Druiy 
Lane it was referred to future considera- 
tion : but unfortunately the author's secret 
had transpired. It was whispered^ that he 
had often applied to managers, and that if 
he should once succeed, he would inevitably 
become a prolific and tenacious mono* 
polist. Whether this surmise operated to 
his prejudice or not, the fate of the play 
was still suspended ; when the author, who 
had too long neglected the state of his 
health, was constrained to remove to the 
country^ to avoid the probable consequences 
of another winter in town. From child- 
hood he had been rather delicate than ro- 
bust, and his constitution was gradually 



106 

undermined by sedentary habits and unre- 
mitted 'application. During the ten years 
in which he kept his eye constantly fixed on 
the stage, he scarcely allowed himself the 
common indulgence of sleep and recreation 
— of exercise and amusement. Even the 
summer did not always allure him to the 
country ; and he sometimes spent the whole 
year in London, never quitting its smoky at- 
mosphere but for his favourite pursuit of ang- 
ling. It is remarked by all his friends, that 
he possessed an elasticity of temper which 
never permitted him to nourish chagrin, or 
to sink under despondence. It is, however, 
impossible not to suppose that success might 
have invigorated that frame which he had 
too long neglected, and which could not 
have been wholly inaccessible to the in- 
fluence of disappointment. His increasing 
indisposition had long attracted the notice 
of his friends, before he acknowledged any 
cause of complaint. Wearied by their im- 
portunity, he at length consented, without 
ascertaining the fate of the Honey-moon, to 



10? 

leave London, and spend the winter of 1804 
with a relation who resided in Cornwall : of 
which the mild salubrious air, it was hoped, 
would contribute to re-establish his declin- 
ing health. 

In leaving London he did not immediately 
relinquish his long cherished pursuits ; since 
he revised the songs of his Fisherman, and 
analysed several Spanish pieces, with a view 
to future dramatic compositions. He had 
long been a diligent student in Spanish lite- 
rature ; but having seldom extended his 
analysis of a Spanish play beyond the 
first act, it may be presumed he was wea- 
ried with the sameness, or discouraged 
by the intricacy, which forms a promi- 
nent feature of those romantic dramas; 
he has, however, left a complete epitome 
of the Gitonilla di Madrid, the Gypsey of 
Madrid, from the celebrated Don Antonio 
di Solis. The latter has been inserted in 
this volume, partly because it illustrates the 
peculiar habits of Tobin's enterprising, in- 



108 

defatigable mind, and partly because it 
affords a convincing proof that he no longer 
anticipated the performance of the Honey- 
moon, from which he proposes the trans- 
ference of a scene in the fourth act, to 
enliven the comparatively insipid pages of 
the Gypsey. 

From childhood Tobin had been emi- 
nently distinguished by two qualities seldom 
associated in the same individual — perse- 
verance and facility ; and he possessed, 
almost in an equal degree, the inextin- 
guishable ardour that defies obstacles, and 
the spirit of accommodation that recon- 
ciles itself to disappointment. His tran- 
quil retreat soon discovered to him new 
objects of interest and enjoyment: his 
uncle's house was furnished with an ex- 
cellent library, which tempted him to revive 
the studies of his youth. He re-perused, 
with avidity, the old English dramatists ; 
and suddenly conceived the idea of prepar- 
ing for publication a new edition of Shake- 



109 

speare. In the following letter, addressed 
to his brother, he appears to have been so 
completely engrossed by this undertaking, 
as to have abandoned the hope, and almost 
dismissed the recollection, of The Honey- 
moon. 

" Dear James, 
" You must get — — • to read this. And 
first, as the Shakespeare subject, next 
to my health, dwells most at present on my 
mind, I will discuss that. I can see no- 
thing in your objections (indeed they are 
not great) to the plan ; nor am I terrified 
by any gentleman's collecting materials for 
an edition. Of the very many who have 
published the works of our great poet, by 
far the greater number have failed altoge- 
ther, and a great number partially : this 
has convinced me that the undertaking is 
serious •, and that to execute it well, requires 
a great deal more talent than you seem to 
think necessary. Stevens has perhaps con- 
tributed more than all the rest put together 



110 

to the illustration of Shakespeare's text i 
what he has done has been entirely by dint 
of study ; and being void both of taste and 
sagacity, he is wrong almost as often as he 
is right. Malone is more correct, has more 
taste, and has certainly done much. War- 
burton is, as a commentator on Shakespeare, 
a man whom too much learning has made 
mad : his explanations are nine times out of 
ten completely visionary. Johnson took no 
pains ; he does nothing but guess, and ge- 
nerally wrong. Farmer is allowed to be 
ingenious ; but he has taken such liberties 
with his author, that his edition is now 
almost universally exploded. Theobald 
made some good hits, but he did little. 
The last editor of importance (a Mr. Reed, 
who was appointed by Stevens to the task) 
has published twenty volumes in very large 
octavo, the notes printed small; he has 
added but few notes of his own, though he 
appears a black letter man. There are 
some ingenious notes from friend Douce y 
and isome from Holt White, Our ob- 



Ill 

ject will be to shorten the present edition 
considerably, by cutting out a vast deal of 
matter, which has no more to do with the 
illustration of Shakespeare than any thing 
else, and to add our own notes ; which will 
leave the work (I should hope) a third less 
bulky than it is at present. We are going 

on very well, except that having been 

poorly some time, has been unable to attend 
to the ornamental part of our design : he is 
however indefatigable in reading for the 
work. The books recommended in your 
last, we happen to have here ; and having 
read them through, as well as many others, 
I must trouble you to send me down the 
following : — Dodsley's Collection of Old 
Plays ; Beaumont and Fletcher's Plays ; 
Evans' Old Ballads; Ray's Proverbs; 
Marston's Plays ; Daniel's Tragedy of Cleo- 
patra ; Brown's Works ; we shall not want 
Chatterton, the words he has adopted not 
being of Shakespeare's age ; the Biographia 
Dramatica ; and any others I may have for- 
gotten, published before the year 1600, or 



112 

soon after it. The most valuable books, I 
conceive, are those which treat of the man- 
ners and customs of those times ; dictiona- 
ries, which were then scarce ; plays, and 
poems : but the great desideratum is to get 
books that are not generally known, and 
therefore have not been generally pillaged : 
but those you will consult in town are per- 
fectly competent judges of what will be 
useful. 

-"-As to my health, the oppression on my 
chest is not removed : indeed, though it be 
now getting fast into June, we have had ter- 
rible weather till within these four days. I 
have been several times on the water in my 
uncle's very complete pleasure-boat. I 
think I have so far received benefit as to 
ground a reasonable expectation that a 
course of this exertion and air will be of 
great service to me. 

" I had forgot, sir, to say, in the fore part 
of my letter, that your idea of our copying 
the, whole of Shakespeare is erroneous: we 



113 

must get the last edition interleaved, and 
cut him up for the purpose. 

" I am glad to find that has such 

good employment, and wish it were perma- 
nent. As to our speculation of a partner- 
ship, I begin to fear it must end in fume ; 
and I would not, for an hour, stand in his 
way, if any thing should arise by which he 
might better his situation." 

During his residence in Cornwall, Tobin 
never alluded to the circumstance of his 
having written plays; but whenever the 
drama became the subject of conversation, 
he discovered such prompt and familiar 
acquaintance with its literature, and such 
critical accuracy and felicity of observa- 
tion in every thing connected with the stage, 
that it was impossible not to suppose he en- 
tertained the idea of becoming a dramatic 
author. In the meanwhile the Shakespearean 
study so completely engrossed his atten- 
tion, that he became estranged from the 



"114 

Muses $ and no longer found in solitude, 
the nurse of poetry. Two or three of his 
finest lyrical effusions, are however traced 
to this period; in particular, the song in 
The Fisherman, beginning with f Land of 
my blighted hopes, Adieu.' When he drew 
this picture of a despairing exile, he little 
thought he should so soon be destined to bid 
an eternal farewell to his native country. 

Whilst he was thus detaching himself from 
his former pursuit, The Honey-moon, which 
had been long incarcerated at Drury Lane 
theatre, narrowly escaped being ignominious- 
ly dismissed with other literary lumber. For- 
tunately, it was reserved for Mr. Wroughton, 
whose interference on a former occasion had 
proved wholly unsuccessful, to rescue this 
play from unmerited oblivion. Through his 
importunity, it was submitted to unpreju- 
diced decision, and finally, to the unspeak- 
able joy of Mr. James Tobin, declared to be 
accepted, Not one moment was lost in 
10 



115 

transmitting to his brother the welcome In- 
telligence, accompanied by a strict injunc- 
tion, that he should immediately prepare the 
prologue and epilogue ; but the time was 
passed, in which the poet would have obeyed 
this mandate with eager alacrity. Con- 
sumption continued daily to gain ground 
on his enfeebled frame, and at this moment 
he was leaving Cornwall, to return to Bris- 
tol, from whence he was to embark for 
the West Indies ; a voyage being recom- 
mended as the last resource to re-establish 
his declining health. In the first emotion 
of pleasure, however, he prepared to fulfil 
his brother's wishes ; but after some painful 
efforts, which ended in producing only four 
lines, he resigned the pen, with the un- 
willing confession, that he was unequal to 
the attempt. On his arrival at Bristol, 
his energies seemed to revive, whilst he 
secretly enjoyed the astonishment with 
which his father, (for the first time apprized 
of his dramatic pursuits), received the in- 



116 

timation that The Honey-moon was in 
rehearsal. Could mental excitement alone 
arrest the progress of bodily decay, Tobin 
must now have triumphed over disease ; he 
at least flattered himself he should soon be 
well, and calculated with such precision 
the duration of his absence, and referred 
with such confidence to his restoration to 
England, that it appeared almost im- 
possible to distrust the accomplishment 
of his predictions. Although his debility 
was hourly increasing, he continued to col- 
lect materials for future plays ; to cherish 
aspirations for excellence ; to indulge the 
dreams of happiness and fame. It was late 
in November when he embarked at Bristol, 
after a cheerful parting from his parents and 
friends, who probably little imagined it was 
to prove eternal. During his short voyage 
to Cork, he was constantly admonished of 
his impending fate, by the hectic appear- 
ance of a lady who, like himself, appeared 
to be rapidly sinking to an untimely 



117 

grave*. Such, however, was the cheerfulness 
of his temper, that even the contemplation of 
her sufferings only excited commiseration, 
without suggesting one personal apprehen- 
sion ; yet so strongly was he impressed with 
the conviction of her immediate danger, 
that he dwelt on this subject in the last letter 
which he ever wrote, and in which, whilst 
the vessel was getting under weigh, he once 
more spoke with confidence of his speedy re- 
turn to Europe, his future exertions, his smil- 
ing prospects, and sanguine anticipations. 
For the first time he ventured to trace a plan 
of domestic felicity, founded on a mutual 
attachment, and sanctioned by the pro- 
mised boons of success and independence. 
The barrier which had so long impeded 
his wishes was now removed. He dis- 
covered no future difficulties to perplex 
his course. A few months and all would 
be well, and he should enter the long 
desired haven. 

* This lady is living, and in good health. 
i 3 



118 

Such were the Impressions with which, 
in the afternoon of the 7th of December, 
he commenced his voyage ; the night 
proved boisterous, but it passed quietly 
with Tobin, who had retired to his bed, 
and dismissed his attendant. Towards 
morning the wind became contrary and it 
was judged expedient to return to Cork 
harbour. Amidst the bustle and confusion 
incident to this situation, it was remarked 
that all was silent in Tobin 5 s cabin ; but this 
circumstance excited little surprise in those 
accustomed to witness his habitual self-pos- 
session and composure. No suspicions were 
entertained of his safety ; and it was simply 
to offer refreshment, that his attendant ap- 
proached the bed, when it was discovered that 
the poet indeed slept — to wake no more. It 
was in vain to surmise at what momenthe had 
breathed his last ; no groan was heard, no 
murmur escaped his lips : and it is with 
reason to be presumed, that the stream of 



119 

life ran pure to the last drop, and that death 
came like a peaceful slumber after the fes- 
tival of enjoyment. 

The ship being driven back to Cork, an 
opportunity was offered for his inter- 
ment; and when the intelligence of his 
death reached his afflicted family, the last 
duties had been performed on his lonely 
grave. But if his funeral was unattended, 
his death was not unlamented by those 
to whom he had been long an object of 
interest and attachment ; and the following 
sketch of his character, written, after an 
interval of fifteen years, by one who was 
long numbered with his most intimate and 
highly valued associates, will best shew that 
he was eminently happy in his friends, and 
that his choice was justified by the unalter- 
able sentiments which are still cherished for 
his memory.* 

* J. P. Burre ,Esq. of Gray's Inn, 
i4 



120 

" As you desire from me some account of 
the habits and character of the late Mr. 
John Tobin, I willingly comply with your 
request. Of the particulars of his early life, 
I have no knowledge — my intimacy with 
him not having commenced till the year 
1796 ; but from that time to the period of 
his death, I lived in great familiarity and 
daily intercourse with Jiim and his excel- 
lent brother, the late Mr. James Tobin. 
The habits of Mr. John Tobin were 
retired, and his society in general confined 
to that of a few friends ; nor did his pro- 
fession controul in this respect his natural 
dispositions. The hours of the day were 
given to business, but the interests of his 
mind flowed wholly in a different channel : 
his ambition was directed to other objects 
than professional eminence, and the pursuit 
of wealth had for him no attractions. His 
leisure hours were devoted to literature, 
but more particularly to works of wit ; and 
his leading passion was for our earlier drama 2 



121 

upon which he formed his own taste, and 
which it was his great ambition to rival 
in dramatic excellence. This was the main 
object of his life; and when the business 
of the office was over, he regularly retired 
to his own chambers, shut his door against 
all intruders, and dedicated the rest of the 
evening to dramatic compositions. In so- 
ciety he took great delight, entering with 
warmth into subjects of literature, or into 
the topics of the day, which in his time 
possessed a more than common interest ; 
and when, as was not unfrequent, his love of 
truth engaged him in argument, the real 
excellence of his understanding appeared 
more in his full and ready application of 
the arguments of others, than in those 
which he himself adduced, owing perhaps 
to his having given but little of his atten- 
tion to the study of the severer sciences. 
His disposition was frank and cheerful — 
his integrity inflexible, and his disinterested- 
ness appeared equally in the greater and the 



lesser concerns of life. Above all, he was 
distinguished by an unaffected scorn of 
whatever is mean or little-minded, but with- 
out any mixture of the austerity which 
often accompanies this superiority of feel- 
ing." 

Some years after the poet's death, the 
elder Mr. Tobin visited his son's grave, 
over which he caused a small tablet to be 
erected, with the following inscription. 



123 



SACRED TO THE MEMORY 

OF 

JOHN TOBIN, esq. of Lincoln's Inn, 

whose Remains are deposited under 

the adjacent Turf. 



He died at Sea, 

near the Entrance of this Harbour, 

in the Month of December 

1804, 

on his Passage to a milder Climate 

in search of better Health, 

Aged 35. 

That, with an excellent Heart, and a most 

amiable Disposition, 

He possessed a vigorous Imagination, 

and a cultivated Understanding, 

His Dramatic Writings 

fully evince. 



125 



SEQUEL TO THE MEMOIRS. 

The success which has uniformly awaited 
the representation of The Honey-moon, is 
such as almost renders criticism imperti- 
nent, and eulogium superfluous. In the 
first instance, this brilliant popularity might 
with reason be attributed to the exquisite 
skill and grace with which the leading cha- 
racters were sustained by their original 
representatives ; but The Honey-moon has 
been acted in every theatre in the kingdom, 
and beyond the Atlantic ; and under every 
disadvantage arising from inferior perform- 
ers, never failed to attract smiles and 
plaudits from the audience. Amidst all 
the vacillations of taste and fashion, it has 
stood the test of many seasons, and still 
maintains the same eminence : its reputa- 
tion is no longer of courtesy, but of right \ 



126 

it is a chartered play : and when a century 
shall have elapsed, may still transmit the 
author's name and merits to posterity. It 
is pleasing to trace, and not unuseful to 
recal, the first impressions which the pro- 
duction of this comedy created at the 
actual moment; and to those who were 
not in the number of its original spectators, 
the following extracts from the remarks of 
a cotemporary critic may not be altogether 
unacceptable. 

" This comedy appeared at the Theatre 
Royal Drury Lane on the 31st of January, 
where it was highly and deservedly ap- 
plauded : it may be said to form an epocha 
in the annals of the drama^ by being a mo- 
dern attempt to revive the manner of 
writing which prevailed in the sixteenth 
century. In his plan the author has totally, 
and (were but common sense our guide) 
justly disregarded the vaunted unities of 
time and place; but, for the greater per- 



127 

fection of his piece, he neglected that which 
ought to be sacredly observed in dramatic 
composition — the unity of action, as it has 
been named by critics ; but whicfrwould be 
more intelligible to the young students, 
were it rigidly inculcated as the unity of 
fable. By this it is understood, that there 
should be but one story ; and that every 
character introduced in a piece should 
concur in promoting one grand design. 
Against this rule, also, the author has egre- 
giously erred: instead of one, there are 
three stories, and as many designs : a design 
to make a lively coquet play on the feelings 
of her lover ; a design to ridicule and sub- 
due a woman-hater ; and a design to correct 
the haughty and angry temper of a terma- 
gant : this last is the principal design ; arid 
in the manner of executing it, the appro- 
priate nature and pleasantry of the senti- 
ments, and the flowing and frequently 
poetical diction of the author, the sterling 
merit of the play consists. The plan of the 



128 

fable is so far from new, that it appears to 
be an absolute imitation of Shakespeare, not 
only in the characters of the Duke and 
Juliana, who are literally Catherine and 
Petruchio drawn in a different point of 
view, but of Zamora, who is as truly a tran- 
script of Viola in Twelfth Night. In the 
management of the principal plan, when the 
scene changes from the palace to the cottage, 
we are no less forcibly reminded of Rule a 
Wife and have a Wife, by Beaumont and 
Fletcher, The imitations, through the 
whole play, of the authors of that age, are 
too numerous to be cited, but they are fre- 
quently so happily made, and often exe- 
cuted with such an air of originality, that 
instead of being blemishes they seem to 
stamp a sterling merit, and to purify the 
dramatic gold that had so long and so base- 
ly been alloyed. The Honey-moon possesses 
another antique novelty: it is chiefly written 
in blank verse, but interspersed with scraps 
of prose, which an attentive reader is apt to 



129 

suspect the author at first intended to 
versify. He has managed this peculiarity 
with so great a knowledge of the blank 
verse which is proper for the stage, that it 
possesses so much ease and fluency as not 
to be perceptible as verse, except to deli- 
cate and critical auditors. 

" As the poetry of the piece forms one of 
its striking beauties, to cite a few of the 
poetical passages may please the reader, or 
afford him an opportunity of judging, 
should he differ in opinion. In Act L, 
Rolando, the woman-hater, is seeking for a 
simile to a woman's tongue ; and his com- 
panion asks him — 

Count. Have you found it ? 

Rol. Hum, not exactly ; something like a smoke-jack^ 
For it goes ever without winding up — 
But that wears out in time ; there fails the simile. 
Next I bethought me of a water-mill ; 
But that stands still on Sundays : woman's tongue 
Needs no reviving Sabbath. And beside, 
A mill, to give it motion, waits for grist. 

K 



ISO 

Now, whether she has ought to say or no, 
A woman's tongue will go for exercise. 
Most earthly things have their similitude, 
But woman's tongue is yet incomparable. 



" In Act II. Scene 3. Balthazar goes in 
search of his daughter, and the Count 
says — 

I'll bear you company ; 
And as the traveller, perplex' d awhile 
In the benighted mazes of a forest, 
Breaks on a champaign country smooth and level, 
And sees the sun shine glorious ; so shall you, sir, 
Behold a bright close, and a golden end 
To this now dark adventure. 

" The following is a fine drawn picture of 
the follies in which the wealthy indulge : it 
is near the end of the second act. 

Who, then, that has taste for happiness, 

Would live in a large mansion, only fit 

To be a habitation for the winds ; 

Keep gilded ornaments for dust and spiders ; 

See every body — care for nobody ; 

Lose the free use of limbs by being mew'd up 



131 

In a close carriage next to being bed-rid, • - 

As if, like mummies, we should fall to pieces 
By taking air; and, above all, be pester'd 
With those voracious vermin, call'd attendants. 

" At the close of the third act the Duke 
gives the following beautiful picture. 

Thus modestly attir'd, 
A half-blown rose stuck in thy braided hair, 
With no more diamonds than those eyes are made of, 
No deeper rubies than compose thy lips, 
Nor pearls more precious than inhabit them, 
With the pure red and white which that same hand 
That blends the rainbow, mingles in thy cheeks. 
This well proportion'd form (think not I flatter) 
In graceful motion to harmonious sounds, 
And thy free tresses dancing in the wind, 
Thou'lt fix as much observance as chaste dames 
Can meet without a blush."* 



That The Honey-moon is a fortunate imi- 
tation cannot be denied by its most ardent 
admirers ; but the idea of reviving the old 

* These remarks are extracted from the Theatrical 
Inquisitor for 1805. 

K 2 



132 

comedy was no less original than happy, 
and gives the author an indisputable title to 
the reputation he has acquired. It has 
lately been customary to refer to our elder 
writers as the first and last and only school 
of dramatic poetry. To say that Shakes- 
peare belonged to that age, is surely suffi- 
cient to establish its universal supremacy : 
but not satisfied with this concession, it is 
pretended that even his cotemporaries (few 
of whose productions could be introduced 
on a modern stage), and even his successors 
(though they adulterated many of his beau- 
tiful productions), all belonged to an order 
of dramatic intelligences immeasurably 
removed from the present race of writers, 
and unapproachable by those of future 
generations. It is natural to enquire what 
were the peculiar circumstances of society 
to which we are to attribute this prescrip- 
tive claim to excellence : and the represen- 
tation of The Honey-moon naturally trans- 
ports the imagination to the poetical court 



133 

of Elizabeth, and the theatrical metropolis 
of James. In that dramatic age it is well 
known that the poet was supremely happy 
to receive five pounds for his moiety of a 
play; that the most popular performer 
thought himself liberally remunerated by a 
salary of thirty shillings per week ; and 
that, even in the elegant theater of Black- 
friars, volumes of vapours ascended from 
the smokers in the pit, whilst the fumes of 
strong beer issued from the dark and gloomy 
cells corresponding in design with ourboxes, 
but not like them, alas ! graced by the 
presence of fashion, of elegance, and beauty. 
We will not animadvert on the custom of 
crying in the theatre the refreshments pro- 
vided for the audience*, since the same 
custom prevails at this day in the Theatre 
Francois. Nor need we, perhaps, greatly 
commiserate our play going forefathers be- 

* The money squandered in these refreshments 
forms a serious article in Prynn's charges against the 
theatre.— «See Histrio Mastix, 

K 3 



13 h 

cause their orchestra was comprized ill 
three fiddles, and its operations often limit- 
ed to the three flourishes announcing the 
entrance of the royal Dane or noble Moor, 
inasmuch as they were thus spared the 
musical interlude which now deforms the 
solemn scenes of Macbeth. 

In witnessing the rage for spectacle which 
in our day has almost raised the machinist 
above the poet or the tragedian, we might 
perhaps be tempted, with the eloquent 
Schlegel, to envy rather than pity the 
squalid penury of their scenical decorations. 
The blanket curtain might be tolerated, 
under some circumstances, even in modern 
times ; but no eloquence — no ingenuity 
can disguise the ludicrous subterfuges for 
scenical machinery which have drawn forth 
the animadversions of cotemporary critics, 
and at which Sydney has levelled the 
keenest satire.* 

* Our tragedies and comedies observe rules neither 

9 



135 

A still greater drawback was found in 
the intrusion of spectators on the stage, 
where, seated on their twelvepenny stools, 
they interfered with the performers, and 
sometimes vociferated to the audience.* 
Surely such indications of coarseness and 
barbarism cannot be included in the cir- 
cumstances peculiarly favourable to drama- 
tic perfectibility. 



of honest civility nor skilful poetry : here you shall 
have Asia on one side, and Afric on the other, and so 
many other under kingdoms, that the player, when he 
comes in, must ever begin with telling where he is, or 
else the tale will not be conceived. Now you shall 
have three ladies walk to gather flowers, and then we 
must believe the stage to be a garden. By and by we 
hear news of a shipwreck in the same place : then we 
are to blame if we accept it not for a rock. Upon the 
back of that comes out a hideous monster with fire and 
smoke, and then the beholders are bound to take it for 
a cave ; while in the meantime two armies fly in, repre- 
sented with four swords and bucklers, and then, what 
hard heart will not receive it for a pitched field? — 
Defence of poesy. 

* This abuse has been exquisitely ridiculed in Beau- 
mont's comedy of The Burning Pestle, 

K 4 



136 

Bat if, leaving the Theatre or the Globe^ 
we follow the Bard to his seven o'clock supper 
at the Mermaid, to the very room where 
Shakespeare presided — where Jonson, Flet- 
cher, and the lesser satellites, revolved 
around him ; if we contemplate the union 
in which they lived, the gaiety that pre- 
vailed at their simple but convivial repast \ 
we shall be ready to confess that this was 
indeed a glimpse of Poet-land, such as is 
not likely to be discovered again. 

The drama appears to have then con- 
stituted a sort of literary commonwealth 
in which men of gentle blood associ- 
ated on equal terms with men of ser- 
vile condition. Seceders from the pulpit 
and the bar, exchanged learning for elo- 
quence ; and managers, actors, and au- 
thors formed a confederacy, in which 
petty interests and personal feelings were 
held subordinate to. the common good. 
Even with poets, not competition but 



137 

co-operation was the object. The part- 
nership of Beaumont and Fletcher, 
the occasional conjunction of Massinger, 
Ford, Marlow, &c> all illustrate this funda- 
mental principle. There is something pleas- 
ing and congenial in the idea of this literary 
consortship, in the interchange of pathos 
and humour, of wit or eloquence, accord- 
ing to the peculiar bias or talent of the 
respective colleagues. Accustomed to sit 
at the same table, whilst they sipped their 
posset or saw the cup replenished with 
sack, they sometimes produced comic scenes 
almost without the intervention of a pen, 
from the inspiration of the social moment.* 



* Methinks the little wit I had is lost 

Since I saw you — for wit is like a rest, 

Held up at Tennis — which men do the best 

With the best gamesters. —-What things have we seefi 

Done at the Mermaid — heard words that have been 

So nimble — and so full of subtle flame, 

As if that every one, from whence they came, 

Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 

And had resolved to live a fool the rest 



138 

In a moral view the advantages resulting 
from this order of things is equally apparent : 
between partners the petty jealousies of 
authors must have been suspended; and 
it is notorious that these joint-writers seldom 
took the trouble to identify their respec- 
tive shares in their literary property. The 
eminence to which they aspired was local. 
The theatre was their World, and few 
attempted, through the medium of the 
press, to extend their reputation beyond 
its limits. But with whatever feelings of 
complacency we may be disposed to con- 
template this poetical state of society, it 



Of his dull life. — Then when there had been thrown 
Wit able enough to justify the town 
For three days past — wit that might warrant be, 
For the whole city to talk polishly, 
'Till that were cancelled, and when that was gone, 
We left an air behind us — which alone 
Was able to make the two next companies 
Right witty, though but downright fools, more wise. 
Beaumont: s letter to Ben Jonson, 



1 39 

is impossible not to detect in its pictu- 
resque features, the homely, though not re^- 
pulsive expression of poverty : it was neces- 
sity that controuled the spirit of egotism : 
it was to escape from want and desolation 
that authors coalesced as brothers ; mutual 
hardships formed the cement of their union, 
and care and toil suspended if they could 
not extinguish the dreams of fame. 

Although the nascent drama, like a little 
rocky domain, might be protected by indi- 
gence from invasion and dissension^ from li- 
mitation and corruption ; it may be doubted 
how far the federal principle of coalition was 
favourable to the higher efforts of human 
intellect. The gem is imbedded in a soli- 
tary cell — genius requires space and insu- 
lation for full development. 

The learning of the age is another fa- 
vourite theme with its panegyrists — but 
was not the theatre the resort of the 
people? 



140 

Did scholars and sages predominate 
in the audience? On the contrary, if 
we may credit cotemporary writers, it was 
the Theatre that was the academy, and 
that gradually refined and improved the 
audience.* Much stress is laid on royal 
patronage, but it was no courtly wand that 
raised in one year three theatres : it was 
no sovereign's mandate that cleared the 
Bear gardens, and attracted its frequen- 
ters to more refined and liberal entertain- 
ments. It is true that plays were some- 

* In his Apology for Players, Hey wood, with some 
plausibility, ascribes to the influence of the stage, the 
diffusion of information and the improvement of taste, 
" You see to what excellence our refined English is 
brought, that in these days we are ashamed of that 
Euphemy and eloquence, which within these 60 years, 
the best tongues in the land were proud to pronounce. 
Plays have made the ignorant more apprehensive, taught 
the unlearned knowledge of many famous histories; 
instructed such as cannot read, in the discovery of all 
our English chronicles. What man have you now who 
cannot discourse of any notable thing recorded even 
from William the Conqueror, nay from the landing of 
Bruit) until this day ?" 



141 

times performed at court, but what royal 
personage ever deigned to visit even the 
Rose or the Fortune, which were privileged 
theatres ? What high-born beauty con- 
descended to sit even in the Lord's box, 
which was appropriated to the few persons 
of distinction who attended a public play ? 
To what then should we attribute that 
affluence of talent, — the power, the supre- 
macy of our elder dramatists ? To liberty ', 
and the energy it inspires ; — to success, and 
the ardour it creates ; — to the conscious- 
ness that they were progressively extend- 
ing their influence with the public # ; — and 
to the proud conviction, that they were at 
least recompensed by its grateful attach- 
ment. To the dramatist of those days, 
some theatre was always open.t The repre- 

* In two years, it is stated, that two play-houses 
were rebuilt, the Fortune and the Red Bull ; and a 
third (the Whitefriars) erected. 

f No doubt they did not act every day, and several 
of these theatres were very small, and, probably, not 



142 

sentation of a new play was attended with 
little additional expence, and the per- 
formers readily concurred in lending it 
their zealous support. The poet who failed 
in his first effort was not precluded from 
a second or a third attempt, and by repeat- 
edly exercising his talents, was finally en- 
abled to exert them with success. Few of 
the writers of that age arrived at eminence 
till after frequent trials and even reiter- 
ated defeats : but how different such trials, 
such discipline, such experience, from the 
slow revolving years of doubt and suspence, 
the unmitigated — the everlasting penance of 
tantalization and disappointment. May we 
not venture to believe that it was from the 



much better fitted up than Marionette booths. Still, 
however, they served to call forth the fertility of those 
writers who possessed, or supposed they possessed, dra- 
matic talents ; for every theatre must have had its pecu- 
liar repertory, as the pieces were either not printed at 
all, or, at least, not till long after their composition. 

Schlegel. 



143 

privilege of holding constant communication 
with the public, rather than from any roman- 
tic features of society in the 17th century, 
that the poet derived his strength, his 
felicity, his excellence? and that the de- 
generacy of the modern theatre originates 
in other causes than diffused cultiva- 
tion and the progress of knowledge and 
refinement. It is derogatory to the drama 
(of which the foundation is laid in human 
nature) to suppose that, like the masque 
or pageant of the Gothic era^ it derived its 
glory from a system of manners and customs 
which have long since perished. There 
is no human power by which the spirit of 
a departed age can be recalled from ob- 
livion. The progress of society, however 
eccentric and vacillating, is regulated by 
certain immutable principles, and, even when 
it appears to retrograde, is never observed- 
to retrace its former track, or to resume 
its primitive aspect. But admitting 
that the recent discoveries of knowledge 



144 

and science have been unproductive to 
poetry *, must it follow, that they have 
encroached on its original domain, and that 
the emanations of reason and philosophy, 
like a volcanic flood, have converted to ruin 
and waste the once brilliant scenes of pas- 
sion and imagination, and swept to oblivion 
the ancient land-mark of nature ? By what 
agencies shall the Chemist decompose the 
moral principles essential to dramatic feel- 
ing ? By what collision has the electric rod 
divested fancy of her potent spells ? Can the 
telescopic glimpse of distant worlds abstract 
the heart from its own little vibratory system, 
those unceasing changes and hourly revolu- 
tions of thought and feeling, in which man 
becomes to man the first object ? 

* Many branches of human knowledge have, since 

that time, been cultivated to a greater extent, but 

merely those branches which are unproductive to poetry. 

Chemistry, mechanics, manufactures, and rural and 

political economy, will never enable a man to become a 

poet, 

SchlegeVs Lectures. 



145 

Abstractedly considered, the progress 
of civilization, by multiplying the sources 
of intellectual pleasure, should natu- 
rally increase the aptitudes and sensibili- 
ties to the dramatic art. There is some- 
thing in the very stillness and security of 
polished society, that creates a constant ne- 
cessity for moral excitement, and that where 
the mental energies are not exhausted, must 
give a more powerful impulse to the ima- 
gination. The contemplation of action 
is to none more delightful than to those 
who are circumscribed in their sphere of 
activity, and who submit unwillingly to- the 
consciousness of restraint and limitation. 
Experience justifies the assertion, that the 
conception of horrors may not only be ac- 
ceptable to an age of elegance and refine- 
ment, but that, when unaccompanied by 
circumstances of disgust, they often inspire 
intense delight ; but though candour must 
acquit science and literature of having 
exercised an anti-dramatic influence on 
society, it is impossible to dispute the fact, 



146 

that the modern poet has been dispossessed 
of the privileges and immunities allotted to 
his predecessors, and that he has to lament 
the deprivation of that unentrammelled free- 
dom which, under the nominal despotism 
of a Master of the Revels, the elder Bard 
was permitted to enjoy. Nor has he 
merely to complain of the forfeiture of 
those dear and invaluable privileges — he 
might appeal from the injustice which ren- 
ders him amenable to laws from whose pro- 
tection he is excluded : — he might protest 
against the tyranny which first enslaves and 
then degrades him — which forbids him to 
emulate the elder dramatist^ and then stig- 
matises him with inferiority and con- 
tempt: but these are trifling evils, compared 
with the loss of public esteem and self- 
respect. He is not only taught to be- 
lieve that he belongs to an inferior order of 
dramatists, but even to a degenerate age, 
whose suffrage is not to be obtained by 
merit, and whose applause he can scarcely 
purchase but with his own contempt. Sen- 



147 

timents such as these are perpetually 
echoed by critics and declaimers ; and in 
whatever measure they may obtain belief, 
must operate to the depreciation of talent, 
the extinction of energy, and the deprava- 
tion of taste. 

It is eminently unfortunate for the pro- 
gress of any art, when the standard of ex- 
cellence is in a style completely opposed to 
the rules prescribed to living students. 
Something like this may be observed to arise 
from the contrast exhibited by such old 
plays as are still acted and applauded 
with the artificial mechanism invariably 
exacted (in fable and incidents) from living 
cotemporaries. With the exception, how- 
ever, of Shakespeare, the great and univer- 
sal interpreter of nature, the revival of our 
elder masters (for which a strong induce- 
ment is offered in their exemption from 
litigious criticism) are seldom found to 
engage the affections of the public ; and 



148 

for the obvious reason, that the writers of 
a distant period cannot address themselves 
to our sympathies like one who has dwelt 
amongst us, who is familiar with our idioms 
and impressions, and by a sort of felicitous 
sub-intelligence, is capable of explaining our 
secret sentiments. Although this remark 
applies rather to comedy than tragedy, 
which, being founded on human sufferings, 
is less dependent on local or temporary im- 
pressions, there still remains, even with the 
latter, a barrier to intimacy in the anti- 
quated language, or almost obsolete allu- 
sions, of a departed age. Shakespeare alone 
has triumphed over time. The venerable fa- 
thers of our dramatic literature are unques- 
tionably entitled to every sentiment of 
gratitude and veneration, but this generous 
devotion degenerates into illiberal supersti- 
tion when it exacts the sacrifice of our living 
cotemporaries, by whom those mighty mas- 
ters of the spell should rather be invoked as 
tutelary protectors. 



149 

To establish the opinion that there ex- 
ists a moral necessity for the degeneracy 
of modern dramatists, is to pronounce a 
sentence of ostracism against national ge- 
nius : — it is to blight the laurel that should 
invest the poet's brow : — it is to break the 
tripod which enthusiasm had consecrated, 
and to lay open the sanctuary of honour 
and immortality. Yet in contemplating the 
powerful energies which have been deve- 
loped in other departments of literature, 
who can resist the persuasion, that the 
spirit of the drama also hovers over our 
sphere, ready to evolve from the kindred 
elements of society, its new and beautified 
and intelligent creations. But to realize 
this expectation, two changes are necessary 
in the public mind, and to the desire that 
good plays should be produced, must be 
added the conviction, that good plays will 
be successful. 

The history of the modernTheatre strongly 
l 3 



150 

exemplifies the remark, that a bitter foe is less 
to be deprecated than a lukewarm friend. In 
the days of Prynne and Collier, when the 
stage was exposed to the combined attacks 
of scholars and moralists,, it flourished; for 
those attacks were repelled by its partizans 
— its champions — its defenders. In the 
present day, when it commands the homage 
of rank, wealth, and literature, when its 
distinguished professors are eagerly wel- 
comed to the circles of elegance and fashion, 
there is an apathetic indifference to its vital 
interests — a total absence of enthusiasm and 
attachment. According to the levelling 
principle recently established with regard to 
public amusements, a sagacious quadru- 
ped — a tumbler — a juggler, is authorized 
for a season to counteract the most accom- 
plished actor. Not only is Shakespeare 
travestied, but the national theatre at once 
burlesqued and supplanted by scenical exhi- 
bitions, which cannot but vitiate, and must 
ultimately destroy the public taste. But let 



151 

not knowledge, science, or literature, be 
charged with an outrage, of which the tolera- 
tion demonstrates that we are still in a state 
of imperfect civilization. These innovations 
on the legitimate drama are the more to be 
lamented, as from the enormous expence at- 
tached to regular establishments, our national 
theatre requires the most strenuous support ; 
and, to avert the ruinous consequences of 
neglect, is unavoidably compelled to adopt 
a temporizing system, which degrades its 
character, and defeats its object. 

It is not to knowledge, to taste, to moral 
feeling, but to their adversaries, to preju- 
dice, to egotism, to levity and apathy, that 
we must attribute the indifference to our 
national Theatre,, w r hich, as the primitive 
school of poetry, of eloquence, or refine- 
ment, claims respect and protection : to its 
existence we owe a large and precious 
portion of our national literature : to its 
tutelary influence we perhaps owe the 
l4 



151 

brightest star of modern times, the onfy 
and universal Shakespeare. The theatre 
is in a manner the representative of so- 
ciety, a nursery of various talents : and as 
an asylum for various arts, is singularly 
qualified to call forth the energies and de- 
velope the moral character of a free people. 
To the poet the theatre is as the shrine of 
Mecca, the eastern goal to which he con- 
stantly directs his glance, or addresses his 
secret prayers, in his pilgrimage through the 
desert. At its name a stronger pulsation 
rushes to his heart : he sees in it patronage* 
friendship, and affection — from its influ- 
ence, he anticipates the gratitude, the sym- 
pathy, the attachment of his country. 

The system which circumstances rather 
than individuals have established in modern 
times, is, to the poet, worse than penury or 
scorn, or censure or contempt : it is the 
blank of silence, the darkness cf despair. 
It is not often that a mind of poetical sensi- 



153 

bility is endowed with the faculty of stoical 
endurance : and there are men of exalted 
souls, and lofty aspirations, who would not 
descend to meanness — who could not stoop 
to debasement — to purchase the boon of 
immortality. By such the path of obliquity 
will be left to men who are only solicitous 
for temporary interests, and incapable of 
inspiring a permanent sentiment. The 
sanctuary is first polluted, and then de- 
serted. 

Dramatic biography is generally the record 
©f imprudence and misfortune : even of our 
elder bards little is known, but that they 
lived in indigence, and died in obscurity. 
If we refer to the later era of the restora- 
tion, we shall find the persecuted Dryden — 
the ill-fated Lee — and the exquisitely- 
pathetic Otway : but it is consoling to re- 
flect, that to all of these it was permitted to 
snatch some gleams of hope — some transient 
moments of happiness. The most unfortu- 



1.54 

nate was not, like the author of The Honey- 
moon, condemned to wear out existence in 
silent conflicts and unavailing regrets — his 
most gloomy hours might be gilded by vi- 
sions of fame, and their last pangs soothed 
by the reflection, that he had not lived and 
suffered in vain ! 

THE CONCLUSION, 

It remains to notice such of Tobin's plays 
as have been represented since The Honey- 
moon. In 1806 The Faro Table was for the 
second time read in the green room, but 
after every preparation had been made 
for its representation, (dresses being pro- 
vided for the principal performers)*, it was 

* Amongst these, was one of the few survivors of the 
school of Garrick, the late Miss Pope, an actress of whom 
it was the rare privilege, during almost half a century, 
to continue to advance in the estimation of the public, 
and, with added years, to enjoy extended fame ! In her 
earlier efforts, she had to measure her strength with for- 



155 

suddenly withdrawn, and The Curfew sub- 
stituted in its place. The success of that 



midable opponents ; but in her later and original charac- 
ters, she was, confessedly, without a rival ; and, in the 
opinion of those who have witnessed and enjoyed them-, 
must ever remain without an equal. It would be little 
to say, of a woman who was exemplary in every relation 
of life, that her reputation was unblemished ; and if, in 
prudence, she baffled calumny, she equally disarmed 
envy by her benevolence : her manners were characterised 
by frankness and simplicity ; — she never studied effect, nor 
betrayed the slightest degree of pretension ; but she was 
superior to the affectation of concealing those rare 
talents which diffuse exhilaration through every cir- 
cle, and which equally delighted her elder or younger 
associates. Her principles were never sacrificed to 
politeness ; nor did she conciliate favour at the ex- 
pence of truth. It was scarcely possible to meet her as 
an acquaintance without wishing to attach her as a 
friend. If the gay and the prosperous were charmed 
with her animation, the melancholy and the unfortu- 
nate were soothed by her kindness, or animated by her 
piety. The example of Miss Pope might alone silence 
the prejudices which once prevailed against her profes- 
sion. To such a woman, rank could not have added 
dignity ; nor was fortune necessary to extort respect ; 
even the celebrity which offers homage to talents, falls 
short of the veneration inspired by genuine virtue! 



156 

play ensured attention to the author's re- 
maining pieces. The opera of The Fish- 
erman was accepted at Drury Lane, and 
that of Attraction at Covent Garden ; of 
both these pieces, the music was actually 
composed, but irretrievably lost in the 
similar calamity of fire, which befel the 
sister theatres. The School for Authors 
was, in 1808, performed by the Covent 
Garden company at the Haymarket thea- 
tre with great applause. Shortly after Mr. 
James Tobin leaving England, no further 
notice was taken of his brother's manu- 
scripts, till after the re-establishment of 
Drury Lane theatre, when he addressed 
the following letter to Mr. Whitbread. 

« Sir, Nevis, 1813. 

" The interest which you have lately 
taken in the affairs of Drury Lane theatre, 
induces me to address you respecting two 
pieces, which have been for many years con- 
sidered as accepted by the proprietors of the 



157 

old theatre ; they are the productions of my 
late lamented brother, who when alive had 
some reason to complain of neglect, from 
those, who have since his death profited 
so much by his labours. The Fisherman, 
an opera, has been several times altered 
and adapted to the stage ; and was to have 
been brought out before I quitted Eng- 
land in 1809- The Faro Table was read 
in the green room, many years before 
that period, and was on the point of being 
played, when it was discovered, that it was 

a satire on Lady . After the death of 

this lady, it was again brought forward. 
I was sent for from the country to attend 
the rehearsals ; it was announced in the 
bills ; and two days before its intended re- 
presentation, an election for Westminster 
having taken place, I was told it would 
be considered as a satire on another Lady, 

and the play was suppressed. Now, 

Sir, should there be no more peeresses 
or ladies of quality standing in the way, I 



158 

may justly require, that this piece, which 
I can venture to say will not disgrace the 
theatre, may be brought forward ; and I 
have applied to you, being at this distance 
ignorant who are the acting managers at 
Drury Lane. I must refer you for parti- 
culars to Mr* Wroughton, to whose exer- 
tions the public and myself are much 
indebted for the performance of The Honey- 
moon and The Curfew. 

" I remain, Sir, with respect, &c." 

It was not till November 1816, that The 
Faro Table, under the title of The Guar- 
dians *, was performed at Drury Lane, 



** It is painful to state the fact, that although this 
comedy was acted nine nights successively with decided 
applause, the customary remuneration was withheld 
from the author's representative, the Relict of Mr. James 
Tobin. Since this work has been in the press, the Fisher- 
man has unexpectedly been produced at Drury-lane 
theatre, under the auspices of Mr. Elliston, who, as the 
original duke d'Aranza, is justly to be considered as 
patron of Tobin's fame; and, to the well-wishers of 



159 

—-twenty years after its first acceptance. 
During that interval, various changes had 
occurred to those once connected with its 
eventful history ; of the performers origi- 
nally studied by the author, not one remained 
to take the allotted part ; of the friendly 
critics, accustomed to sit in judgment 
over the author's manuscripts in Barnard's 
Inn, not one was present. And to the 
melancholy impression produced by the 
author's fate, was added that of his excellent 
brother, who, in 1815, had closed a life 



the drama, it must be pleasing to know, that this long- 
neglected opera was spontaneously sought, accepted, and 
protected, with a zeal and ability never to be forgotten 
by the friends and admirers of the lamented author. 
That the cold reception of this piece, during the few 
nights of representation, corresponded little with the im- 
pressions previously received of its merits by men of 
acknowledged talents and taste, is undoubtedly a sub- 
ject of deep regret; but these partial feelings of disap- 
pointment have been mitigated by the sentiments which 
honourable and liberal treatment must always inspire in 
eandid minds — but which, in the present instance, have 
unquestionably been heightened by the force of contrast. 



160 

devoted to activity, to usefulness, and bene- 
ficence. Hitherto Mr. James Tobin has 
been mentioned only in connection with 
the poet, of whom he was uniformly the 
adviser, the patron, and the friend ; but 
he possessed individual claims to distinction, 
in honourable singularity of character, and 
undeviating uprightness of conduct. With a 
heart naturally susceptible of the most ardent 
feelings, he had early acquired that self- 
command which fits its possessor for the im- 
portant and austere duties of human life; and 
with sympathies and affections never to be 
system a tised to indifference, he submitted 
without a murmur to privation and disap- 
pointment. Much as he despised luxury, 
and severely as he condemned convivial indul- 
gence, he had an exquisite relish for the plea- 
sures of conversation, and the endearments 
of domestic society ; nor was he ever known 
to renounce a friend, although by his sin- 
cerity, he often hazarded the forfeiture of 
a friendship. From the candour which 



161 

dwelt in his own breast, he naturally ex- 
pected to recognize the same quality in 
others ; the love of truth was his pre- 
vailing passion ; and it was remarked by 
one who had from childhood known him, 
that Imagination could not conceive the 
situation in which he would have been 
tempted to renounce his self-respect, or 
sacrifice his principles. Of his capacities 
for the tender affections, none could doubt 
who knew with what almost unexampled 
constancy he had been devoted to the 
interests of a brother, whose early death 
he continued to deplore, to the latest mo- 
ment of his existence. Not even the in*- 
fluence of time prevailed over his regrets ; 
nor, till he formed a nearer and more 
endearing connexion, did he resume his 
native cheerfulness. It is remarkable that 
the qualities of his mind and heart were 
more fully developed, under circumstances 
which should seem calculated to stifle 
moral feeling, — in a situation, abstractedly 

M 



162 

considered, the most uncongenial to his 
habits and sympathies, — in a spot exhibiting 
the utmost misery and degradation, — the 
polluted soil of slavery, divided between the 
oppressed and the oppressor. It is unne- 
cessary to enter into the disgraceful details 
of those illegal^ though unpunished cruel- 
ties, which, during his superintendance of 
his father's plantation at Nevis, brought 
his conduct more immediately before the 
public. It will be more pleasing to con- 
template the example of energy and be- 
nevolence which he constantly offered to 
imitation. 

Amongst other plans of usefulness, Mr. 
Tobin was preparing materials for a work 
on colonial policy, in which he hoped to 
demonstrate the necessity of correcting 
the abuses incident to the administration 
of British justice in the West Indies. * 

* Experience proves, that the benefits of the Bri- 
tish constitution cannot be communicated to a land of 

9 



163 

An avowed enemv to cruelty and op- 
pression, he contemplated with delight 
those prospects of emancipation, of which 
the progressive improvement ol society 
held out the most sacred assurance, To 
prepare the slave tor future freedom and 
independence, was the object to which he 
constantly directed his exertions . Accus- 
tomed to devote himself to the welfare of 
others, he watched with almost paternal 
solicitude, over the welfare of those com- 
mitted to his direction; nor was it more 
strenuously his aim to lessen the hard- 
ships of this numerous community, than by 
calling forth their faculties and affections, 
to elevate them in the scale of human 
beings. The opinion of the world had no 



slavery. In rain are juries Unpaimelled for the cogniz- 
ance of crimes committed by the planter against the 
negro : a verdict of moqui:::zl is almost the necessary con- 
sequence of the corrupt state of society. The trials of 
Huggins at Nevis corroborate this fact. 

M 2 



164 

influence on his upright mind ; and never 
was his own domestic happiness alloyed, 
but by the conviction that there existed 
misery, which he wanted the power to 
alleviate. When this reflection was sus- 
pended, he enjoyed, in his busy, yet peaceful 
home, a felicity rarely allotted to human ex- 
istence. The deprivation of sights so gene- 
rally considered as one of the most afflictive of 
human calamities, scarcely threw one shade 
over his habitual cheerfulness ; and by cre- 
ating a new and endearing interest in the 
ordinary relations of life, it even seemed to 
exalt his capacities for mental gratification : 
with the eyes of his wife, or of his children, 
he continued his scientific researches, and 
still delighted to hold communication with 
nature : every hour brought its allotted 
duty — its appropriate enjoyment 5 and, in 
receiving assistance, he dispensed instruc- 
tion and happiness. 

At no period of existence had he 



165 

Courted praise, or deprecated censure : he 
asked not to be popular, — he aspired to be 
useful ; — the boon was granted : and with 
this conviction he would have been satis- 
fied : but in the country which, to its im- 
mortal honour, had upheld the cause of the 
oppressed African against the European op- 
pressor, the voluntary services of Mr. James 
Tobincouldnotpassunnoticed,andhis manly 
conduct obtained the esteem and confidence 
of the most enlightened advocates of huma- 
nity and truth. At the instance of a Prince* 
who felt that philanthropy could shed a 
brighter lustre over royalty, he received a 
spontaneous public acknowledgment — the 
more grateful to his feelings, as it appeared 
to pledge the continuance of those exer- 
tions from which alone he could anticipate 
a final triumph. Amidst perils and perse- 
cutions, he stood firm and unappalled ; his 

* His Royal Highness the Duke of Gloucester offered 
this tribute to Mr. Tobin at a meeting of the African 
Institution, 1813. 

M 3 



166 

spirit shrunk not from the conflict ; but the 
unremitting exertions of his mind wore 
down his frame : the distresses to which 
owing to a state of warfare (*) he saw the 
island exposed, called forth efforts of which 
his life became the sacrifice. But although 
he was not permitted to witness the triumph 
of that cause, to which all the faculties of his 
soul were consecrated, he has left to his wife 
— to his children — the consoling reflec- 
tion, that his labours must have essentially 
contributed to its accomplishment ; and 
that, whilst truth, probity, and benevolence 
shall continue to inspire respect, the me- 
mory of James Tobin can never be con- 
signed to ungrateful oblivion. 

* During the American war* 



ADVERTISEMENT 

TO 

THE DRAMAS. 



IN presenting the following dramas to the 
public, it is as unnecessary as it would be 
unpleasing to offer any criticism on the 
works of the lamented author. 

The literary character of Tobin is already 
fixed on a permanent basis* Amongst his 
cotemporaries it might not be difficult to 
mention authors possessing superior powers 
of pathos and humour, more fortunate in 
creating interest, or awakening sympathy : 
but it was reserved for Tobin to catch the 
spirit of our early dramatists, and in some 
degree to claim participation with their clas- 
m 4 



168 

sical privileges. On this distinction is 
founded his right to eminence and fame^ 
and it is worthy of remark, that although 
he had studied with peculiar felicity 
the great masters of the age of Shake- 
speare, he escapes the charge of man- 
nerism and affectation. It is not precisely 
Beaumont or Fletcher, or Massinger, that 
he copies, although he writes like one who 
is intimately conversant with their lan- 
guage, and who has insensibly imbibed their 
opinions and sentiments. To originality 
of character, he has not established his 
pretensions. Cut off in the flower of his 
days, and almost at the moment when he 
had discovered where his peculiar talent 
resided, he can scarcely be considered as 
having reached the full maturity of m his 
genius, or as having perfectly developed in 
his mind its latent capabilities of excellence. 
Had he been permitted to survive the 
season of mortification and disappointment, 
there can be little doubt, but that he would 



169 



have restored to the theatre many of those 
humourous personages of the elder comedy, 
whom the costume of their times has ex- 
cluded from the modern stage. In his 
earlier productions there often appears a 
.driftless energy, a lively but vacillating 
fancy, a perpetual struggle between native 
taste and factitious experience. 

The fragment of the tragedy presented 
in this volume will sufficiently demonstrate 
that his first aspirations were of a more 
exalted nature than he was afterwards 
permitted to cherish. Although the rejec- 
tion of The Curfew evidently checked his 
flow of fancy, it prevented not the pro- 
duction of The Indians, which, however 
unsuitable to representation, demands to 
be rescued from oblivion. The opera of 
Yours or Mine has been acted in an altered 
form at Co vent Garden. Of the Fisher- 
man, which completes the collection, 
mention will be made in another place. It 



170 

remains to be observed, that there still exist 
some minor pieces from the same pen, 
which, in the opinion of good judges, 
are well entitled to the honour of repre- 
sentation. 



ANALYSIS, 

BY 

JOHN TOBIN, 

OF 

LA GITANILLA DE MADRID, 

(The Gypsey of Madrid J 

COMEDIA FAMOSA DE 
DON ANTONIO DE SOUS, 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Don Juan. 


Juana. 


Preciosa. 


Sancho. 


Maldonado. 


Don Pedro 


Don Alonzo. 


Fabio. 


Dona Isabel. 


Martin- 


Diego. 


Julio. 


Don Henrique. 


Gitanos. 



Musica Accompanamiento. 



This dramatic sketch is inserted, partly as a specimen 
of the author's style and spirit of analyzation, and partly 
because it affords a proof that, in 1804, the author de- 
spaired of seeing The Honey-moon represented. 



THE GYPSEY OF MADRID. 



ACT I. 

E?iter Don Juan and Julio with a Miniature Picture. 

Julio. Como tan poco gustosa 
Fue la causa de venirte 
Alia dexaste al partirte 
El retrato de tu Eposa 
Don Juan. Quedose, Julio, olvidado 
Pero yo pienso que ha sido 
En este Caso el Olvido 
Diligencia del Cuidado. 
Jul. No es menester que publique 
Tu lengua, que eres ingrato, 
Don Juan. Dexa esso. This picture I must give 
to Don Henriquez, that by means of it he may the 
better follow my bride. 

Julio. To Don Henriquez, signor ? The picture of 
Isabel? 

Don Juan. Come nearer to me, and you shall know 
the history of it. You know that T came to court— 



174 

Julio, True, sir, in obedience to your father you 
left Salamanca for Seville ; about which time, attentive, 
as he said, to your happiness, he engaged to marry 
you at this court to Donna Isabel de Oviedo, your 
cousin, whose picture you just now held in your hand. 
After receiving a thousand letters from your father, 
you resolved to come here, but determined not to 
marry the lady. Your friend Don Henrique accom- 
panied you from Salamanca. 

Don Juan gives a long account of his having 
fallen violently in love with a gypsey since his arrival 
at Seville, (which the more confirmed his dislike to 
the match which his father had made for him,) but 
that she treated him with disdain : that he had pre- 
vailed on his friend Don Henrique to personate him 
with Isabella, which he might easily do, as none of 
the lady's family had ever seen him, and his father 
was not expected for some days : that Don Henrique 
accordingly, carrying with him the letters which Juan 
had received from his father, had introduced himself, 
five days since, to Isabella and her family, as Don 
Juan, and in that capacity was making love to the 
lady. Don Juan then declares his reason for having 
turned gypsey, that he might the better pursue his new 
mistress. 

Julio declares his readiness to join his master in the 
scheme. 



175 

Enter Preciosa as a gypsey and Juana. The Pre- 
ciosa and Don Juan converse : she still proves dis- 
dainful. Julio makes loves to Juana. The Preciosa 
and Juana depart. A short conversation between 
Juan and Julio. 

(/ think a scene may be here introduced between 
Juan and Henrique^ in which the latter may relate 
the progress he has made in the family.) 

Enter Maldonado, an old gypsey. Sancho, Diego, 
Preciosa, and Juana^ as gypsies. Juan and Julio are 
introduced, and accepted as gypsies. It is agreed 
that Juan shall be called Andres, and Julio, Hernando. 
Maldonado orders a couple of dresses to be brought 
for them. Juan, in changing his dress, lets fall the 
picture of Isabella, which Julio takes up, Preciosa 
gets it from him. A conversation between Juan and 
Preciosa, in which the latter accuses him of having 
another mistress^ which he denies : she goes out with 
Juana : Juan follows her ; and Julio also departs. 

(Perhaps the scene between Juan and Henriquez 
would better come in here.) 

The following is a bad scene altogether. Query, if 
not better to make Don Pedro fall from Ms mule on 
his journey to Madrid. — (Introduce scene from the 
Honey-moon.) 

Enter Don Pedro and Martin his valet. Pedro 



176 

observes that Don Alonzo, the sister of Isabella,, lives 
somewhere thereabouts, but that he does not mean to 
visit them without his carriage and retinue. He sees 
the gypsies, and inquires of them the way to Don 
Diego Alvarado's, his friend, whom he is going to 
visit : but as Don Diego makes no part in the play, it 
might perhaps be better for him to inquire at once the 
way to Alonzo' s. The gypsies go out ; as do Pedro 
and Martin after a short conversation. 

Don Henriquez and Fabio enter. Don Henriquez 
confesses his passion for Isabella, whom he has wooed 
in the name of Don Juan. Don Alonzo enters ; and 
Fabio should, I imagine, depart, as Alonzo communi- 
cates to Henriquez his attachment to the Preciosa, 
and departs. Scene between Donna Isabel and 
Henriquez, by which it appears they are mutually 
enamoured ; but the lady is fearful of having been too 
forward in declaring her passion. Whilst they are 
talking — 

Enter Don Alonzo, Preciosa, and Juana. They 
admire the beauty of Preciosa : she tells the fortune 
of Isabel ; and in dancing lets the picture fall, which 
Isabel takes up ; they all become jealous but Henri-r 
^uez : the act finishes. 



177 



ACT II. 

Enter Juan and Julio as gypsies. Julio informs 
Juan (which it appears afterwards he has learnt from 
Juana) that Preciosa has compared the picture with 
the original^ and is convinced of his inconstancy. 

Preciosa and Juana pass over the stage, affecting 
not to see Juan and Julio, who address them : Pre- 
ciosa accuses Juan of falsehood ; he attempts to defend 
himself; among other things says he never saw the 
lady : Julio proposes that, to clear up the matter, 
they should all go to Isabella's, when the truth would 
appear from her conduct to Don Juan. They go 
out. 

Scene between Henriquez and Isabella : she 
accuses him of having given her picture to Preciosa; 
he defends himself as well as he is able : says that he 
lost the picture, and that probably it was found by the 
gypsies. 

Isabella is informed that the gypsey is without. 
Enter Preciosa, Don Juan, Julio, and Juana. Pre- 
ciosa relates that Andres (Juan's assumed name 
among the gypsies) pretended to be her lover, but 
that the admiration he had expressed of the beauty 
of Isabella had awakened her jealousy : Isabella 

N 



178 

satisfies her upon that point, and in return requests to 
know where she got the picture that she had let drop. 
Preciosa informs her that Andres had found it, and 
brought it to her : this agrees with Henriquez's story, 
and all parties are satisfied. The arrival of Don 
Pedro is now announced : Henriquez pretends that 
he wishes, before he sees his father, to have some par- 
ticular conversation with Isabel, and they retire. 

Enter Don Pedro and Martin. He discovers Juan 
and Julio ; inquires why they appear in the habit of 
gypsies; the Preciosa informs him that the guests 
who are met to celebrate the marriage of his son had 
amongst them undertaken to play a comedy of 
Cervantes, called La Gitanida ; this satisfies him, and 
he proposes to go in with them, and see the bride ; 
they excuse themselves on the ground that she knows 
nothing of their intentions, and that they mean to 
surprize her with their performance. Isabella enters 
on one side, saying that Don Juan has left her in 
great confusion, and promised to return immediately. 
Pedro tells the gypsies he does not wish to interrupt 
their design: they depart. Isabel comes forward: 
Pedro talks of having conversed with his son in the 
character of a gypsey : Isabella is puzzled (jealous, in 
learning that Juan had departed in a gypsey 's dress) : 



179 

he requests that Alonzo might be informed of his 
arrival. They go out. 

Enter Alonzo and Fabio. Alonzo talks of his pas- 
sion for Preciosa: Preciosa and Juana enter. Pre- 
ciosa inquires of Alonzo respecting Don Juan's 
coming to Madrid; this renews his jealousy; he 
informs her of .Don Juan's having come to marry his 
sister; she inquires how it happens that his sister 
should not know him; Alonzo is confounded., but 
before she can explain herself Don Juan and Julio 
enter on one side, and Don Henriquez on the other : 
a general confusion takes place, and the act ends 
without any of the -parties coming to an explanation, 



N t 



180 



ACT III. 

Enter Juan, dressed as himself, and Julio as a 
gypsey; Juan declares his determination to quit 
Madrid, after having explained to Preciosa the whole 
of his story : she enters ; he renews his suit ; she is 
still disdainful, and the more to discourage him, gives 
a very long picture of the life of a gypsey. Juana 
enters to inform them that Juan's father is coming in 
search of him ; he declares he must have an interview 
with his friend (Henriquez), and departs, as does Pre- 
ciosa : a short scene of courtship between Julio and 
Juana : they go out. 

Alonzo and Fabio enter ; the former declaring his 
determination to have an interview with the Preciosa : 
they hear a noise without, and retire: the gypsies 
enter, and seat themselves ; a conversation takes place 
between two of them, as to the occasion of their 
meeting: Maldonado and Preciosa enter; they all 
rise and present him a seat : Maldonado declares it to 
be their intention that night to quit Madrid, and 
arranges their plan of operations for plunder previous 
to quitting it : he settles that himself and Julio will 
make one party : the gypsies all go out, leaving Pre- 
ciosa : Alonzo enters ; after a short conversation, 
Preciosa, to avoid him, goes out ; he pursues her. 



181 

Enter Henriquez and Ines. She informs him that 
her mistress is very anxious to have an interview 
with him in the garden. (The scene represents it.) 
Ines goes out to bring her mistress. Henriquez in- 
forms the audience of the aukwardness of his situ- 
ation, as that was the spot where he had appointed 
to meet Don Juan. He retires on hearing voices. 
Maldonado and Julio enter. The latter recognize s 
the house of Donna Isabella, and is fearful : Mal- 
donado encourages him, saying he has a secret in his 
possession, which, if they are taken^ will bring them 
off. They go out, Isabella enters_, and as she is 
explaining to Henriquez the confusion he has caused 
in the house, she hears the key of the garden turn, 
and thinking it to be her brother, goes out. Hen- 
riquez retires to the back of the stage, Alonzo and 
Preciosa enter through the garden door: after a 
short conversation between them, Don Juan enters, 
observing, it is the spot where he was to meet Henri- 
quez. Alonzo speaks to him> mistaking him for his 
valet Fabio, and departs. Don Juan and Preciosa: 
she accuses him of coming there to meet Isabella : he 
recriminates on having found her with Alonzo. Hen- 
riquez comes forward, and he and Don Juan have 
no sooner recognized each other, than Don Pedro 
enters in search of his son; finding other persons 

n3 



182 

there, he calls for lights. Alonzo, Isabel,, and Ines, 
enter with lights. Pedro recognizes Don Henriquez, 
and addresses him by his name. Before they can 
explain, a cry within of thieves— ^Martin enters, 
dragging in Maldonado and Julio. The former 
requests to be heard : he produces a box with a 
picture and a trinket* from which, and a paper found 
with it, the Preciosa is discovered to be the sister 
of Alonzo and Isabella. Juan confesses the cheat he 
had put upon Isabella. The Preciosa is united to 
him, and Isabella gives her hand to Henriquez. 



183 



ACT III. 

Enter Juan and Jtdio, dressed as gypsies, 

Juan. Been at Donna Isabella's ? 

Julio. Yes, sir. 

Juan. Impossible ! how could she have known 
the picture was intended for Isabella ? 

Julio. She knew no such thing ; she went there as 
a fortune-teller, but finding that the lady exactly re- 
sembled the picture, she was immediately persuaded 
that she was your real mistress, and became jealous 
accordingly. 

Juan. And where did you learn all this? 

Julio. Of her companion, Juana; but yonder they 
come. 

Juan. What the devil shall I say to her ? 

Julio. Nothing, sir, let her begin: always let an 
angry woman have her full flow, and take her when 
she begins to ebb. 

Juan. Stand aside, and let them pass. 

Enter Preciosa and Juana. 
Preciosa. Let us appear not to observe them, and 
pass. \Juan and Julio come forward and detain them, 
Juan. Nay, it is impossible but you must see us. 
n 4 



Preciosa. Let me pass, signor; one is not obliged 
to notice every thing one sees ; 'twould be a terrible 
tax upon one's courtesy. 

Juan. But you won't go without speaking to me ? 

Prec> When you have discovered a man's false- 
hood, to have spoken to him once, is sufficient. 

Juan, When you accuse a man of falsehood, you 
should at least hear his defence : the meanest criminal 
has that privilege allowed him before condemnation ? 

Pred Well, to the picture then — I have seen 
the lady. 

Juan. So did I never, by heavens ! 

Prec. How ! you never saw the original of that 
picture ! 

Juan. Never, as I hope to be saved. 

Prec. And the lady perhaps never saw you ? 

Juan. Not that I know of. 

Prec. Bravo ! and you'll maintain, perhaps, that 
I never saw the lady ? 

Juan. You may have been deceived ; there is a 
mystery about that picture, which I cannot at present 
unriddle: but by the faith and honour, that lady, 
whoever she may be, is as ignorant of my person as 
I am of her's ; and that we therefore must be perfectly 
indifferent to each other. 



185 



Prec. So it seems, by your wearing her so near 
your heart ? 

Julio. A mode strikes me of satisfying; the lady 
without danger to my master. With permission of 
the company, I have a proposal to make that may suit 
both parties. 

Juan. Speak, Julio. 

Prec. Well, what have you to say ? 

It will not appear surprising, that the author of the 
Honey- moon should have relinquished the attempt to adapt 
La Gitanilla to the English stage, an attempt to which he 
could alone be incited by discouragement and despondence. 



THE TRAGEDY, 

A FRAGMENT. 

Written in 1794». 



DRAMATIS PERS'ONM. 

MONTANO., 

Valletort. 

Vasquez. 

Almar. 

Urane. 

Brianthe. 

Child. 



A FRAGMENT. 



SCENE THE FIRST. 

Montano and Vas^uez. 

Mont. Come near me, Vasquez, 
And let me pour into thy faithful ear 
The inward thoughts which prey upon my quiet. 
You must remember 'tis scarce six months past 
I went to wed Salerno's beauteous daughter, 
And Valletort was with me, then a boy, 
A pretty beardless stripling in my train, 
Such as your delicate fastidious dames 
Are hugely taken with : me she mispriz'd, 
Though much I play'd the fool, ogled and sigh'd, 
And bow'd my nature to obsequious homage ; 
Yet most contemptuously she scorn'd my proffers, 
And on this youthful truant turn'd her eye ; 
Which he observing, took her in the mood, 
And wedded privately. 



190 

Vasq. What follow'd this ? 

Mont. Her father died soon after, 
Bequeathing her no portion but his curses ; 
Whilst I, though inly griev'd as much as he, 
With smooth demeanor pass'd the matter off, 
Reckless of further question. 

Vasq. 'Twas provoking. 

Mont. 'Twas wormwood to my pride : as for my 
love, 
In the warm foldings of some kinder fair 
I could have bought oblivion. But to be scorn'd ! 
What is there in this smooth-fac'd Ganymede 
To shame my functions in a woman's eye, 
That he should glitter like a star ; whilst I 
Look'd black as pitchy night ! What, am not I 
Gifted with all dimensions of a man ; 
Voice, action, reason, thought, as well as he ? 
Passions that rise as high, and cry as loud 
For quick enjoyment ; appetites as keen, 
And hopes as daring ? x\y, more deadly daring ; 
For who shall cheat me of the sweet revenge 
Which now dawns dimly on my troubled soul. 

Vasq. Your rage transports you, sir. 

Mont. I thought 'twas coyness — 

Woman's stale artifice, to keep us warm 
And keen in the pursuit : and whilst, forsooth, 



191 

I fondly staid the ripening of her life, 
This boy of smoother phraseology 
Breath'd on her neck one am'rous melting sigh, 
And, quick as eyes could meet, or hands encounter, 
Quick as the motion of a falling star, 
Told his soft tale, and rushed into her arms. 
Vasq. You brood too much upon it. 
Mont. . What ! dost think 

I am compact of such dull-mettled stuff, 
Calmly to see the pride of all my hopes 
Torn from me, and not vow a great revenge ? 
Vasq. But how to master it? 
MonU Therein I must have 

Thy counsel. For a while he sojourns here, 
To move his interest with our senators ; 
Whereto, as counting much upon my friendship, 
And knowing I am gracious in their eyes, 
He hath solicited mine aid. His wife 
Attends him here. 

Vasq. What out of this, my lord ? 

Mont. She doats upon him with that trem'lous love, 
Which, where 'tis deepest rooted shakes the most; 
And whilst abroad he plays the truant, sits 
And images in fond solicitude 
The causes of his absence. If she but knew 
He left th' encircling harbour of her arms, 



192 

To ride at large on love's unhallow'd sea — 

Vasq, Is't so indeed ? 

Mont. Thou know'st Rodone ? 

Vasq. The cunning'st shrew in Venice. 

Mont. She has hook'd him 

Made fools of all his senses, that he thinks 
Her virtue more transcendant than her beauty. 
For, like a skilful mistress of her trade, 
With a soft coy reserve, and delicate frankness, 
She drew him on, and madden'd so his sense 
With wav'ring looks, and wishes half express'd, 
So play'd with his young fancy, and beguil'd 
His green experience, that the fool is caught : 
Nay, he has diced so deeply with her friends, 
Right skilful in their calling, that, his means 
Exhausted, she has prodigally fed ; 
So that she holds him by a double bond, 
A debtor to her bounty as her love ; 
Now, Vasquez, out of this 

Enter a Servant. 

Thy business, quick. 
Sero. A lady seeks your presence. 
Mont, I attend her. {Exit Serv. 

She comes to know what progress I have made 
In Valletort's preferment. 
Meet me an half hour hence : we'll commune further. 



i9a 

Vasq. I will not fail, my lord. 

Mont. Till then, farewell. [Exit Vaso. 

This is a precious villain, whom I keep 
To serve my purpose. He has done an act 
To which he knows, by the strict course of law, 
His death is adjunct ; and I hold him fixt 
Under the sharp suspended sword of justice, 
To further my revenge : if he should shrink 
From any enterprize I put him to, 
I'll cut the trembling hair that bars his fate, 
And let the keen edge fall on him. 

Enter Brianthe. 

Brianthe ! 
You were the latest in my thoughts. The state 
Hath heard my suit press'd warmly for my friend, 
And I am promised, on the next promotion 
He shall not be forgotten. 

Bri. Thanks, good Montano. 

Yes ! thou art noble ; and the idle breath 
Of a weak woman's praise I know is irksome. 
The noble mind, disdaining recompence, 
Rolls on its tide of bounty, like the Nile, 
Expansive, silent as its secret source, 
And laves, with equal pride, the desert spot 
Whose wasted misery can yield no return, 

O 



194 

And the fair laughing land whose beauteous bosom 
Repays with rich fertility the debt. 

Mont, Oh, had I power (as I am rich in will) 
To cheat thy bosom of one lab'ring sigh, 
Or in those lucid orbs suspend a tear^ 
It would be prouder triumph to my heart, 
Than to the victor, in his trophied car, 
The shout of nations : or the yielding sigh 
Breath'd in soft murm'rings to a lover's ear. 

Bri. I know it, for thou lov'st humanity ; 
And if I thought a woman's foolish fears 
Were worth thy private ear — - 

Mont. Speak on, speak on. 

Bri. You are my husband's friend. 

Mont. I fain would prove so. 

Bri. Be not offended : but in Venice here, 
Where thick temptations throng on every side, 
To lure the rover from domestic joys — — 
You must not make a truant of my lord. 

Mont. What, doubt his constancy ! 

Bri. Nay, think not so. 

The turtle, when her mate hath left her nest, 
First knows the rapture his return would bring : 
And I, whose thoughts and wishes, hopes and fears, 
Are grafted all on him, where they must die 

Or bring forth fruit Oh ! tempt him not abroad, 

For I shall quarrel with the very air 



195 



That blows too freely on him ; and the winds 
Chide heavily that drive him from my home. 

Mont. Is he not noble-minded ? wild indeed 
Of wing, and flush'd with youth : but what of that ? 
If through the empyreum high upborne, 
Sublimely steadfast soars the king of birds 
Too rash a flight, 'tis little difficult 
To pluck a feather from his eager wing 
And mitigate his speed : but who can give 
Strength to an owlet's pinion ; feed his eye 
With fire to hold contention with the sun, 
And sail majestic through the vault of heaven. 
To prune luxuriance is an easy task ; 

But who can fertilize sterility ? 

Bri. True, true, Montano ; and thou warm'st my 
heart 

With the comparison. But yet his quick 

And eager spirits 

Mont. Oh, for shame ! for shame ! 

Look at thyself, and say if he can wander. 

Look at the smooth grain of that iv'ry skin, 

Those cheeks of rose and lily — eyes of fire ; 

Oh, look on these, and say, can happy man, 

Blest with the full fruition, e'er revolt ? 

Yet angels once rebelTd against their God, 

To do base homage to the fiend of hell : 

o 2 



196 

And mortal man's infirmities may slide, 
Where pow'rs immortal fell. 'Tis possible — 
Yet scarce to be conceiv'd ; for now thou look'st 
Some heaven-born wonder newly dropt on earth ; 
And thus I gaze with trembling rapture on thee* 
As the rapt Indian gazes at the sun, 
Whose dazzling lustre quite overcomes his soul. 

Here could I fix 

Bri. No more, I must not hear it. 

Alas ! 'tis beauty's mournful privilege, 
Heedless to give the wounds she cannot cure. 
Noble Montano, think not I mispriz'd 
Thy long descent of valiant ancestry, 
Thy fame in arms approv'd and generous offers ; 
Love is fantastical, nor will be led 
By reason's sober light to fix her choice, 
But wild and wanton sends abroad the eye 
To cater for the heart — then think no more 
Of me and thy past love so ill requited, 
But from your high-born dames of prouder lineage, 
Happier in fortune, higher in desert. 
Select a heart, and weave your fates together. 
Believe me, there is no such dear delight 
No touch of joy like straining to thy breast, 
In the pure folds of hymeneal love 
Her whom your choice has sorted from the wc&ld 



197 

To tread the thorny path of life, and drink 
Its mingled cup of gall and honey with thee. 
But love misplac'd is the extremity 
Of human bitterness — indulge it not; 
'Twill feed upon the spring-time of thy youth, 
Making thy breast a lonely wilderness, 
Where one fierce passion ranging uncontrouled, 

Shall banish peace and joy. 

Forgive this tedious homily, which has nought 

But friendship to plead for it. — So farewell, 

Be virtuous and be happy. [Exit* 

Scene changes to the street in Venice. 

Enter Urane and Child. 

Child. Why did that rough man drive us from 
his door 
With words so bitter ? 

Ur. Know'st thou not, my child, 

It is the privilege of pamper'd pride 
To add rebuke to inhumanity : 
Have we not seen the very dogs devour 
Scraps our imploring eyes have begg'd in vain I 
Art thou not hungry, boy? 

Child. No, that I am not. 

Ur. Nor weary, sweet one? 
q3 



198 



Ch. In truth my very limbs 

Do ache with weariness — yet look not sad^ 
I can bear all but to see you look sad. 

Ur. My brave young traveller ! 

Ch. Oh ! look not thus. 

Your sorrows wet my eyes — you us'd to smile 
And tell me merry tales. Surely my father 
If he but knew it, would not let us beg. 

Ur. Have I not told thee oft ? 

Ch. Nay, be not angry : 

You oft have told me not to talk of him ; 
And yet he comes so oft into my thoughts 
That I forget myself — and you my mother, 
Tho' you forbid my tongue to speak of him, 
Yet often in your sleep repeat his name, 
And beg a blessing for him. — I scarce think 
I should remember hhm, for you yourself 
Are sadly chang'd of late. 

Ur. Alas ! my boy, 

Sorrow has shrunk me as a frost in May, 

That falls upon the teeming buds of spring, 

Which else had blossom'd beneath summer suns^ 
And bore autumnal fruit. — Come, you look fresh, 
And bear you with the courage of a man. 

Ch. I would I were a man. 

Ur. Blessings on thee, 



199 

My little sum of joy. — O God of mercy ! 
To thy behests I bow — if 'tis thy will, 
I'll wet my scanty pittance with my tears^ 
Bare my wan cheek to all the winds of heav'n^ 
And let the storm howl o'er my desolate bosom, 
Nor lift a murm'ring eye. — But spare my child, 
Let thy wak'd wrath smite th' offending tree ; 
But spare this tender blossom : 
My little trembling innocent, who smiles, 
Just peeping on a rough and churlish world, 
Nor e'er in thought offended. — Come, my boy, 
We must look out for some protecting shed, 
Where insult cannot reach us, where unseen 
I might bestow thee with a mother's care, 
Wrap from the hollow gust thy shrinking limbs, 
And watch thy startled sleep 'till morning beams. 



o 4 



£00 

ACT II. 

Montano and Vasquez. 

Mont. My plague in Venice ? 'tis impossible \ 
Where saw you her ? 

Vasq. Close by the city gate 

She sat and fixt the gaze of all beholders. 

Mont. Your eyes deceiv'd you sure ? 

Vasq. At first; my lord, 

I doubted whether I could trust their functions, 
'Till drawing nearer from her throbbing breast 
She drew a picture. 'Twas the very same, 
Which, as a pledge and proof of early love, 
You once presented her. 

Mont. On with your tale. 

Vasq. She looked at it as one would look on joy- 
Long parted with ; then gaz'd upon her child, 
Then on the picture, then again on him, 
And thus continued with alternate glance 
To note each line and feature of resemblance, 
Till big with her own thoughts she dropt a tear 
On both, and hugg'd them to her bosom* 

Mont. Peace, 

Thou cioaking raven, peace. — I lov'd her once* 
At least her beauty did persuade me so : 
But of Brianthe — 



201 

Vasq. What of her, my lord ? 

Mont. Sullen and cold she yet disdains my love. 

(Shewing a letter.) 
But I have wherewithal to make her mine, 
Or much my hope deceives me. — Couldst thou not 
Deposit this where it may meet her eye 
Unseen of any else ? 

Vasq. No doubt, my lord. 

Mont. It is a letter from that shrew Rodone, 
Fill'd with a long detail of raptures past, 
And hopes of coming joy. (Qives him the letter,) 

Vasq. Address'd to Valletort. 

Mont. About it quick, and tell me it is done. 

Vasq. Where shall we meet again ? 

Mont. You'll find me here. [Exit Vasq, 

This cannot fail : there is a sting in it, 
Which rooted once, and rankling in the heart, 
No skill of mortals ever can pluck out, 
Or human patience render tolerable. 
The wiry scourge and limb-dissevering axe, 
Joint-racking wheels and slow-consuming fires, 
All tortures else which tyrants in their wrath 
Have conjur'd up to tear their trembling slaves, 
Are mercy all to this. — They only reach 
Our corporal sense of sufferance, but this 
For ages shall impale the groaning mind 
Upon the stretch of agony. Her love 



202 



I cannot reach — why then to rouse her vengeance. 

Pride she undoubted has, for she's a woman, 

And woman, when her pride roams for revenge, 

Is little nice about the instrument ; 

But like the heedless whirlwind in her rage 

Not rarely takes into especial grace, 

To serve the present working- of her hate, 

The thing most loath'd before. She may be patient, 

A martyr to her love ! But injur'd there, 

Where nature pleads reprisal, 'tis a goad 

The chaste Lucretia ne'er was tempted with. 

Succeed, but this 

I'll bury there my love and deep revenge; 
If not, some other means must be essay'd, 
For she hath so absorpt my every sense 
And taken with her beauty and her scorn 
Such absolute possession of my soul 
That I must pluck this coy retiring flower, 
Tho' it o'erhung a nodding precipice, 
And underneath the pois'nous adder lurk'd, 
To leap and sting me e'en to death. 
Enter Valletort. 
Friend Valletort, why thou look'st melancholy : 
Has ought untun'd thy soul ? 

Vail. My wife, Montano, 

I have just parted from her. 



20S 

Mont. Oh, he hath rail'd 
Upon your truantry, and dinn'd your ears 
With matronly correction 

Vail. Oh ! you wrong her, 

Mont. What moves you then? 

Vail. A something in my breast. 

That tells me I'm a villain. 

Mont. Tender conscience ! 
A bugbear that much frights unpractised sinners ; 
Ghosts to scare children with. 

Vail. Peace, peace, Montano : 

However we affect to laugh it off, 
Reflexion's sober time will come at last ; 
And he that shuffles by from day to day, 
The hour of thought, trusting it ne'er may come s 
Like a deluded bankrupt, still hopes on, 
Adding fresh items to the heavy balance. — 
Had you but seen her — 

Mont, Oh ! I can fancy it, for I have heard 
A woman's murmurings. 

Vail. She murmur'd not, 

Or if she murniur'd, 'twas but with a smile, 
Which whilst it gently chid, forgave the wrong. * 
She nothing utter'd, yet her eyes were full ; 

* This passage is extracted from the Author's early 
poem of The Prisoner. 



c 2()4 

And as we parted, turn'd her head aside, 

To hide the tears that fell upon her cheek, 

And wrung my hand with such a piteous fondness, 

As might have wak'd a soul of adamant, 

And (like the prophet's touch from Horeb's rock) 

Wrung forth repentant drops. I'll go no more : 

The very image of her heavenly patience 

Stands like a warning angel in my path, 

And wafts me backwards. 

Mont. They are coz'ners all f 

Sigh when they list, like reeds to every breeze, 
And conjure up at will the oozing brine, 
For smiles and tears are women's sorceries, 
With which they wheedle man's deluded sense, 
And melt him to their purpose. — Kind Rodone 
Expects you there to-night. 

Vail. I'll go no more. 

Mont. What ! when luxuriant beauty, such as hers, 
Panting and ripe, a banquet for a god ! 

Vol. Oh, talk not of her, I am mad already. 

Mont. For which immortal Jove had left his skies, 
And Mahomet renounc'd his fancied heaven. 

ValL No more — I prithee spare me. 

Mont, Unbosom'd all to thee ? 

Vail. Peace, peace, Montano; 

It fevers every sense. 



205 



Mont. And thou, forsooth, 

To turn domestic driveller, talk of vows 
By priestcraft fram'd to cheat us of those joys, 
Which nature with a wide unsparing hand 
Freely spreads forth to all, and bids them gather ; 
Fie ! and a soldier too — then give her up ; 
And let the hungry harpies of the law 
Seize on her goods, and turn her forth to wander, 
For she is ruin'd. 

Fall. Ruin'd! how? 

Mont. Her senseless prodigality to one, 
Who having fed on her prosperity, 
And revelPd in the fulness of her fortune, 
When he has pluck'd her golden feathers off, 
Would turn her naked to the wintry wind ; 
A beggar on the world's humanity. 
Know'st thou the man ? 

Fall. Ay, as I know myself. 

I'm a contagious mildew, born to blast 
Whate'er I light on. 

Mont. No more moralizing : 

All yet may be redeem'd — Your wife as yet 
Knows nothing of your losses. 

Fall. No, nor thinks 

E'en with the slightest glancing of mistrust, 
How deeply I have damn'd her. 



206 



Mont. There's my purse. 

Nay, take it, there's some fifty ducats in't ; to-night 
Try fortune once again, she is a gill-flirt, 
That's won with often wooing — come, look gay, 
This may recover all. 

Vail. Oh never, never, 

All that can feed the sense and glad the eye, 
Gold may redeem again : but all the slaves 
That yet have ransack'd the wide womb of earth, 
And excavated half the solid globe, 
Have never lighted on that precious ore, 
Whose current use could buy back innocence, 
Or barter for lost peace — that blessed peace 
Whose cherub voice whispers calm within, 
When all without is uproar — where, Montano, 
Where shall I find it ? 

Mont. In Rodone's arms. 

Vail. Indeed it should be there, for there 'twas lost. 

[Exit. 

Enter Almar to Montano. 

Aim. Have I found thee, villain I 
Well may'st thou start, 
Where is my sister ? but I have no words 
To waste upon thee — in my sword's keen point 



207 

Lies all my argument, which if it reach 
The canker in thy heart, shall tell thee this : — 
Thou might'st betray a woman, but a man 
Is not within the compass of thy spells. 
So stand and guard thyself. 

Mont. So hot and fiery ! 

Aim. Fixt as her shame my vengeance, and as deep 
As thy remorse should be. 

Mont. Speak out thy wrongs. 

Think'st thou because a woman would be kind, 
And with soft dalliance soothe my idle hours — 

Aim. Thou dost bely her, foully thou beliest her, 
She came no eager wanton to your arms, 
But slow and tim'rous, urged by solemn vows, 
Which, villain-like, you since have violated, 
She yielded up, a pure unspotted prize, 

Her virgin heart. 

Oh ! she was all that nature ever form'd 
To feed the ravish'd eye, and fill the soul. 
With wonder and delight mankind beheld her. 
Fresh as the lily, on the mountain's side, 
She bloomed in vestal purity — Till a vile worm, 
Crept to her innocent breast, and nestling there, 
Distilled his venom on her opening sweets, 
And left them all to wither. 



208 



Mont. I possess'd her, 

Till passion chang'd to dull satiety, 
And mutual jarring fill'd the void of love. 
I hate hypocrisy, so left the fair 
To range the world at large, and did the same. 

Aim. Left her to want and biting infamy : 
Oh, my poor sister, my deluded martyr, 
Where dost thou wander now : the wintry storm, 
That heaves the lab'ring mountain to its base, 
And gives deep-rooted oaks their shaking fits, 
How will thy cheek endure it ? — Think of tins, 
Oh think and tremble, for if I forgive thee; — 
Nay, if I do not hunt thee through the world, 
As an attainter of my house's blood, 
May I survive in shame that Roman pander, 
Who to his sister's arms let in the ravisher, 
Andtrick'd her out for midnight violation. 
So vengeance guide my arm. 

Mont. If thus resolv'd, 

I have an arm as well resolv'd as thine, 
A name more terrible, and tho' thou could'st 
Daunt fire-ey'd Mars, and make him drop his lance ; 
Thus would I grapple with thee. 

{They. fight. Enter Vasquez, who parts them. 

Vasq. For shame, put up your swords, whate'er may 
draw them. 



209 

Here, In the heart of a well governed city, 
To venture open broil — if you have wrongs, 
As by your vehemence they seem most deep, 
Appoint some fitter time, and place more apt 
To feed your enmities. 

Aim. You school me rightly, 

And I am calm again. {To Mont.) A word in private, 
Where shall we meet, and speedily. 

Mont. Appoint 

The place and time. 

Aim. To-morrow then, at twelve. 

Mont. Well, be it so. 

Aim. Exact at twelve. Till then, lie still my 
sword, 
Nor leaping from thy dull and peaceful scabbard, 
Upbraid my tardy vengeance. — Sir, at twelve. [Exit. 

Mont. I will remember. Now, my faithful Vasquez, 
Hast thou disposed of the letter? 

Vas. Long ere this, 

Her eye hath reach'd it. 

Mont. That's my true contriver : 

And for this hot-brained honour-breathing spark, 
I am not yet so barren of my wit, 
To encounter him with hazard of my life ; 
I'll fight no more with him. 

Vas. But how prevent it ? 

Mont. 'Tis likely he has left the camp by stealth 



210 

For on the eve of this great enterprize, 
Which now our state is big with, all must bend 
To the strict discipline and course of war : 
Go therefore to the senate-house, and let it quick 
Be buzz'd abroad, that he is stolen back, 
And let his strange desertion so appear, 
That it may bear the stamp of cowardice. 
You understand me. 

Vasq. I'll about it quickly. [Exit. 

Mont. And now for love and vengeance, for by this 
My bird is lim'd, and I must wing aloof, 
To see her pant and flutter in the toil ; 
When, like the vulture hovering o'er his prey, 
I'll pounce at once, and seize upon my quarry. 

Scene changes to Valletorf s. 

Enter Brianthe with a letter in her hand. 

Bri. It is a woman's hand — be still, my soul, 
Nor let thy fearful boding rush on that, 
Which unforeseeing, you may sleep in peace, 
And wake to happiness — yet why of late, 
Have all his letters been lock'd up from me ? 
When he was wont, unurged to shew me all, 
And often laughing, bade me break the seal, 
And read his mistress's name — light words in jest 
Convert to weighty truths. — To live in doubt 



211 



Is hell — and who, that has the means of light, 
Would still groan on, in dark uncertainty : 
When apprehension of the ill we fear, 
Smites deeply as the strong assurance can, 
That what we fear is true, I'll doubt no more, 
This shall resolve me. [As she is going to open the 

Letter, Urane enters. 
Ur. Oh, my child, my child I 

Sweet lady, they have carried off my child: 
Some midnight ruffians, — my poor trembling boy, 
My little traveller — 

Bri. Whence and what art thou ! 

Ur. Torn him by force from my encircling arms, 
His mother's arms. (Enter Child.) Ihavehim once again, 
I have him all — Have they not hurt thee, boy ? 
Oh no, they have not hurt him. — Gracious lady, 
Turn us not forth to-night. 

Bri. What brought you hither $ 

Ur. Lodge us within your stable, or if that 
Be shut to wretchedness, some penthouse cover, 
Any vile place where we may shroud from insult, 
And man torment us not : turn us not forth, 
Indeed I'll be most thankful, and my boy 
Shall with uplifted hands beg blessings on thee, 
But do not force us hence. 

Bri. And look I so inhuman ? but whence are you ? 

P2 



212 



And by what strange disaster broke you in 
So wildly on me ? 

Ur. A long winter's night 

Would not suffice to tell thee half my woes, 
And I am faint for want of sustenance ; 
My boy is hungry too. 

Bri. Come in and feed then. 

I am not yet so lifted above want, 
To look untouch'd at misery, and myself, 
A pilgrim on life's ragged path, would make it 
Smooth to the heavy laden : lean on me. 

Ur. Indeed I want support. 

Bri, This way, come cheerly. [Exeunt. 



213 



ACT III. 

Enter Brianthe with the Letter open. 

Why now my cup of bitterness is full, 

Even to overflowing. All but this 

I've borne without complaint — false to my love ? 

What have I done, what grievous sin committed, 

That thou should' st cast me off? — When thou wertsad, 

Have I not painted my wan cheek with smiles, 

And made mine eye a traitor to my heart, 

To cheat thee into mirth, and watch'd thy looks 

As if my senses fed on nought but thee. 

Have I not borne a father's uncall'd curses, 

Which yet hang heavy on me ? [Montano enters 

behind. 

All for thee, 

For thee, thou most unkind one. ( Weeps.) 

Mont. Let her weep, 

These dewy beads dropt on her kindling rage, 
Like scanty water on quick rising flames, 
Will make it rage more fierce. 

Bru Why then let virtue's self turn hypocrite, 
If he have melted on another's lip 
The seal he took from mine* — Montano — 
Pardon, my lord, alas ! I had forgotten — 

Mont. Rather let me beg pardon, who uncall'd 
Have broke upon your sorrows. — False to her ! 

P 3 



zu 



Report in every thing most scandalous. 
Is here a very liar. — Oh, those lips ! 
Some bee of Hybla has been stinging them, 
For breathing fresher sweets than his own rose, 
And yet repenting left his honey there 
To balm the wound he made. 

Bri. Why talk'st thou thus I 

Montano, speak ! 

Mont. What roseate cheeks, 

For pity's dew to light on e'er it falls ! 
Upon those panting orbs that shame all whiteness, 
Who that could throne him there, would vilely stoop 
To cherish infamy ! 

Mri. I understand you. 

Valletort's false, for so I must interpret 
The wild and random glancing of your speech. 

Mont. Now heaven forbid that myimmeasured words 
Should breed the least suspicion of his love. 

Bri. Nay, I have proof more palpable than that; 
He is a cruel traitor to my love* 

Mont. He should not be a traitor. 

Bri. True, he should not, 

Mont. For beauty so unparagon'd as thine, 
And virtue so to give it sense and perfume, 
Should be exempted from the common fate 
Of those who mourn the inconstancy of man. 



215 



Bri. I have been told (would I had ne'er believ'd 
them) 
By other cozeners than my flattering glass. 
That nature in a kind and lavish mood 
Endow'd my fair exterior, and men's tongues 
Outrunning far the modest phrase of truth, 
Have better'd nature's workmanship. — Alas ! 
Beauty like early blossoms of the spring 
Fills up the wonder of a short-liv'd hour, 
And then droops unregarded. 

Mont. Tax not thus 

With general speech our sex. 

Bri. Oh ! you all 

Worship the trick'd out image of your fancies, 
Till having rudely torn the veil aside 
In which your wond'rous goddess is inshrined. 
You marvel at your folly and grow wise. 
False to my love ! No matter, I alone 
Am culpable. I might have lov'd more wisely, 
Nor broke my father's heart by my perverseness. 
But that's past remedy. 

Mont. Past remedy ! 

Bri. Ay, where's my remedy ? 
Mont. The common one, 

Of wives who, slighted by ungrateful lords, 
Look for some friend to do them ample justice. 
p4 



216 



Eri. Have I a friend like this ? 

Mont. Behold him here. {Kneels.} 
Nay, turn not thus away, nor fill those eyes 
With scorn, whose beams alone bring comfort to me: 
Think with what ardent longing I have lov'd ; 
How I have spent the day in thinking of thee, 
And wearied out the night in watchfulness, 
Whilst he that should bring transport to thy arms, 
And fill them with enjoyment 

Eri. Is thy friend, 

Thy unsuspecting, gen'rous, trusting friend, 
Whom thou would'st meanly take advantage of, 
To stab his honour. 

Mont. True, he is my friend ; 

But what is friendship when compar'd to love ? 
Love is omnipotent, and rends the seal 
Even from the bond of friendship ; in itself 
Absorbing every other faculty : 
Come then, nor coy it thus 'gainst nature's mood, 
And woman's dearest privilege. — Oh ! come, 
And let me press thee warm and panting to me. 

Bri. Unhand me, let me pass. 

Mont. You mean it not, 

There is a kind confession in thine eye * 
Which mocks the faint refusal of thy tongue. 
* These lines were transferred to The Curfew, 



217 

Bri. [Breaks from him.) Villain, thou liest \ my 
burning cheek is red 
At thine ill-manner'd speeches, and mine eye, 
Had it the light'ning's eloquence, should blast 
Thy arrogant presumption. — What, art mad ! 
Or drunk with wine, that here in mine own house 
You thus abuse mine ears, and vent at will 
Your bacchanalian rudeness ? 
Doubt not, my lord, your unsuspicious friend, 
Your friend shall know from what most worthy motives 
You have espous'd his cause. What, crest fall'n ! think, 
Think of your open honourable dealing ; 
And whilst you feel how pitifully low, 
How much beneath th' opinion of itself 
Vice can debase the most exalted rank, 
Learn to revere the dignity of virtue. 

[Exit Brianthe ; ^ILont&no follows. 

Scene, the Street. 

Enter Valletort. 
Why what a wretch am I ? The needy villain 
Who preys on the benighted passenger, 
Goaded by poverty and starving brats, 
Remorseless justice in his prime cuts oft) 
Whilst he who on the turning of a die 



218 



Beggars his family and blasts at once 

The rip'ning hopes of his posterity, 

Walks unrequited for the deed ; and why ? 

The grey-hair'd justice slips his ermine off 

And shakes the box himself; and erring man 

Finds self-born mercy knocking at his heart, 

To wink at vices which himself commits. 

Or rather gaming is so huge an evil, 

A savage monster so untameable, 

That human vengeance cannot chain him down, 

And leaves it to the slower wrath of heaven. — 

My friend to shun me too — that is not well. [Exit. 

Enter Montano and Vasquez. 

Vasq. Think you she'll tell her husband ? 

Mont. No doubt* no doubt. 

Vasq. Then it will end in blood. 

Mont. Yes, blood must flow, but whose blood ? 
Oh ! VasqueZj 
Art thou indeed a friend, or is thy zeal 
Hollow as exhalations of the morn ? 

Vasq. What means my lord ? 

Mont. To night he revels with that shrew Rodone, 
From whom returning he must chuse his road 
Thro' many a lonely and untravell'd spot 
Suited to acts of darkness. Heed'st thou me ? 



219 

Vasq. Most earnestly. 

Mont. Oh, Vasquez ! there are deeds 
Which will not bear the piercing eye of day, 
Yet when the moon, night's grand inquisitor, 
Doth wink behind a cloud - 

Vasq. Go on, go on ! 

Mont. Psha ! or thy sense is dull, or thy will slow 
To execute. Have I not said enough ? 
In the still hour of night, when justice sleeps, 
Vengeance from some dark ambush'd lurking place 
Might steal abroad his arm, as I do now, 

(Drawing a dagger.) 
And stab securely. Art thou now my friend, 
And canst thou answer that ? 

Vasq. Speak out your purpose. 

Mont. Then briefly thus — this Valletort's my foe. 
And I would have him 

Vasq. Murder'd ! 

Mont. Yes, by thee. 

Vasq. Murder'd by me, oh, horrible ! the thought 
Like thick besieging aguea shakes me thro\ 

Mont. Base palpitating villain ! 

Vasq. Hear me first, 

And then condemn me. 

Mont. Hear thee, coward slave ! 

What need to hear thee ? thy pale quiv'ring lip, 



220 



Shrunk eye, and fear bleach'd cheek, interpret for 
thee. 

What, I have over-task'd thy forward service ? 

But like the air swoln bubble — 

Vasq. Hear me a moment, 

Then let thine anger loose. I know this Valletort, 

Once sail'd with him ; 

And as it chanc'd one rude and boist'rous night 

We stood together on the vessel's side, 

To see the warring elements encounter ; 

It chanc'd I slipt into the roaring deep ; 

Whose angry billows soon entomb'd me round. 

Twice round my head the stunning waters foam'd, 

Till the third time emerging faint and breathless, 

Fearless he leapt into the boiling main, 
Whose hungry womb yawn'd dreadfully upon me 
And bravely buoy'd me up till further aid 
Arriv'd to save us both. The thought of this, 
In the first moment, when you urg'd his deaths 
Quick glanc'd across my mind, and quite unmann'd me. 
The pang it gave is past, and now behold me 
Ripe for the bloody deed. 

Mont. You'll do it then ? 

Vasq. By all my future hopes I'll murder him, 
Or fall in the act. 

Mont. It must be done to-night. 



221 



Vasq. This very instant ; for till it be done 
I am rack'd with agony. 

Mont. Take then this dagger, 

And in some shady unfrequented nook, 
Where night is thickest, sheath it in his heart. 

Vasq. I know my place. 

Mont. Hie thee then to it quick. 

Vasq. Good night, my lord, good night. 

Mont. Good night, and shrink not. [Exit. 

Vasq. Oh, Valletort ! when thou dost bid good 
night, 
How shall I answer thee ? [Exit. 



%22 

ACT IV. 

Scene, the Street. 

Enter Vasquez. 

Vasq. This is the spot; and somewhere hereabouts 
He must pass homeward for a moment's pause : 
'Twixt the commission of the foulest act 
That ever stain'd the records of the times, 
And sweet repentance e'er it comes too late — 
To dip this hand in blood ! in innocent blood ! 
The blood of human kind's ! a friend's ! pre- 
server's ! 
In the full ripeness of his summer youth 
To cut him off! 

'Tis such a deed, as any pitiless fiend 
Uncavern'd from the lowest depth of hell, 
Would start appali'd and shrink remorseful back 
At the bare thought of — in comparison, 
Domitian might be call'd compassionate, 
And Herod's massacre go storied down 
White as the babes he slaughter'd! — But, Montano, 
This tyrant holds my life at his disposal, 
And therefore tasks me to his bloody purpose : 
How to save him and yet not damn myself — ("Pauses,) 



223 



There is no other way — it must be so, 

I have liv'd long enough. Thou coward weapon, 

That ever shun'st the honest eye of day, 

Hence to congenial darkness. (Throws wway the 

dagger.) — ■ Hark ! he comes. 
Who passes there ? 

Enter Valletort. 

Vail. A friend ! 

Vasq . Thy name ? 

Fall. Who asks it ? 

Good night to Vasquez, or my ear deceives me. 

Vasq. The same, thy mortal foe. 

Vail. The cause? 

Vasq. A villain's ! 

Thou hast a beauteous wife. 

Vail. Does that offend thee ? 

Vasq. Nay, she is good as beauteous. 

Vail. Has she wrong'd thee ? 

Vasq. I cannot answer thee ! Stand on thy guard ; 
I am thy sworn assassin : yet Fve fought 
In fields where Mars look'd grim and terrible, 
And with a soldier's arm oppos'd to thine 
I will attempt thee fairly, 

Vail. Nay, but hear me. 

Vasq. No more but this. 

Fall. Nay, then, in self-defence, 



224 



I draw : come on, and heav'n decide betwixt us. 

(They Jlght, Vasquez drops his own sword and 
runs upon that o/'Valletort's, and falls-) 
Vail. How fares it with you ? 

Enter Almar. 

Aim. This way came the sound. 

Murder seems busy here ! 

Vasa. {To Aim.) Beseech you, sir^ 
Who have by hazard witness'd this adventure^ 
Note, with my dying voice I here absolve 
This injur' d gentleman. Oh, Valletort ! 
Had I the breath to tell thee. Oh, Montano ! 
Thy wife, thy unprotected wife (Dies.) 

Vail. My wife ! 

Montano ! what means that ? Should it be so — 
Should she have plotted with him ! never, never — 
My unprotected wife ! it must be so ; 
Montano is a villain. (Going.) 

Aim* Villainy 

Might here have other shafts in store for you. 
Till you are safe within the city gates, 
Accept a stranger's service. 

Vail. I have not time 

To thank you, sir ; but cheerfully accept 
Your proffer'd help. [Exeunt. 



225 



Scene, an Apartment. 

Brianthe discovered, 

Bri. How wearily the heavy hours drag on. 
When expectation chides the wings of Time. 
A short half hour he said. An hour is past, 
And yet he comes not. Oh ! heedless rover, 
Could thou but see 

Who sends abroad for thee her waking thoughts,, 
How her heart beats with mingled hope and fear 
At every footfall : to her arms thou'dst turn 
With sweet remorse, and ever harbour there. 
I'll softly steal, and see if sleep possess 
My weary travellers. 

[Goes into the chamber and returns. 
Sweetly they rest in other's arms enfolded, 
Rock'd by their own commotion into peace. 
Sleep triumphs over sorrow : round her neck 
Her infant smiling in sweet dreams beside her, 
Hath thrown his little arm, as thither drawn 
By nature's impulse, as the sweet-pea blossom 
Curls round its native prop. I cannot sleep, 
Yet I have heard the bosom void of guilt 

Q 



2<26 



Can on the sky-roof 'd mountain find repose, 
On the bare heath sleep out the wintry storm, 
And make a pillow of the jagged flint, 
Soft as young cygnets down. I cannot sleep, 
Yet guilt I know not. and the healing balm 
Of inward quiet ne'er shall know again. 
Hark, 'twas some footing sure — no, all is still, 
As when the nightingale has made a pause, 
Leaving the night's ear void again ? 'tis he : 
There is more welcome music in his foostep 
Than the world's minstrelsy. [Mdntano enters.) Mon- 
tano here ? 

Mont. Why dost thou start ? Am I so hideous, lady, 
That at the sight thy nature shrinks abhorrent, 
And the affrighted blood steals from thy cheek, 
As at a church-yard apparition. 

Bri. If here., you come 

Thro' zeal of friendship at this lonely hour, 
Your visit, tho' untimely, yet is welcome : 
But, if you would misuse the night's solemnity, 
To tell again your phrenzied dream of lust, 
And rudely wound a modest matron's ear — 
Your absence had been kinder : 
Thou comest like the demon of the storm, 
Rejoicing in the mischief he has spread. 

6 



<z% 



Thy look is desolation, but thy touch 
A withering blast to nature. 

Moid. Why I come, 

Proud beauty, you shall know : but gather this — 
I came not to fool time away with words, 
I came not to intreat, but to enjoy. 
I did not come to woo thee like the dove, 
But like the angry pard to spring upon thee. 
Therefore these looks of scorn are out of season. 
'Tis not the fierce displeasure of thine eye, 
That lowers from out those over-jutting brows, 
Thy tone imperious, or thy swelling lip, 
Can shake me from my purpose. Mark me, lady ! 
Revenge can diet on a woman's scorn. 

Bri. I do conjure you, as you are a man, 
E ; m woman's breasts have drawn humanity ; 
Damn not thyself and me. 

Mont. Very woman to the last. 

When the loud fury of your words are vain, 
You try with tears to soften me to folly. 
I am not to be mov'd ; and thus I seize, 
Cold stubborn fair one — 

Bri. Oh, for mercy's sake ! 

Mont. No struggling, 'tis in vain. Thy chamber, 
lady? 
This way. 

Q 2 



228 



Bri. Is there no help ? Help ! murder ! help 
Oh, Valletort ! where art thou ? Murder ! help 

(As he is forcing her into the chamber, Urane 
enters.) 
Bri. Kind heav'n, I thank thee : this is thy o'er- 
watching. 

Almar and Valletort afterwards enter. — The remainder 
of this piece is very imperfect. Montano dies ; and Valle- 
tort and Brianthe are re-united. It was not without reason 
that the author complained of the difficulty he experienced 
J n constructing a dramatic fable. It is, however, worthy 
of remark, that within four years from the date of this 
piece, The Curfew was produced. 



THE END OE THE FRAGMENT* 



THE INDIANS, 
A PLAY, 

IN FIVE ACTS. 



q8 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Spaniards. 



Gonsalvo, Governor of a Spanish Fort. 

Fernandez, his Son. 

Flo Rio, Lover of Almanza, 

Perez and Gaspro, Attendants of the Governor. 

Abdallah, a Slave of the Governor. 

Almanza, the Governor's Daughter. 

Indians. 

Raymond, an Englishman., but naturalized among 

the Creeks, and their Leader. 
Potowmak 

Telico 

Other Creeks 



5 i Discontented Creeks. 



Zoa, Wife to Raymond. 

Time, the Performance. 



THE INDIANS. 



Scene, the Governor's House. 

Gov. ( With a letter in his hand.) . This stubborn gitl 
still thwarts my great design, 
And stands between me and my monarch's smile. 
Almanza ! Florio has bewitch' d her, sure ; 
Taught her to mock a father's dull commands, 
^nd give up all for love. Almanza ! 

Enter Almanza. 
Aim, Sir. 

Gov. Why came you not at first ? 
Aim, I beg your pardon, 
If I have made you wait, sir. 
Gov. You could not hear ; 
You were all eye to follow Florio. 
0, 4 



2$e 

I mark'd you : but no more such foolery. 
Dispatches from our court arrived last night? 
In which our monarch rates my service high, 

And promises, if I fulfil his wishes 

But you shall hear him speak. 

{Reads.) " Above all things gain over the Indian 
chief. If fair means will not bribe him, he must be 
dealt with accordingly. Remove this obstacle to our 
nation's glory, and reckon upon the generosity of 
Philip." 

Now listen, and observe me. This proud chief 
Laughs at our profFer'd friendship™ spurns our gold : 
Fear then alone remains. This very hour 
We were, by muftial consent, to meet. 
And fix our boundaries. I've plac'd an ambush, 
Which, as he passes — — -You may guess the rest: 
He is, ere this, my prisoner. 

Aim, Oh, my father, 
Think you that Indian friendship can be bought 
With Spanish perfidy ? 

Gov. I will make him ours i . 
The rest depends on thee. 

Aim. On me, my father? 

Gov. Ay, girl, on thee. Well — 

(To a Messenger who enters.) 

Mess. Tike Indian chief, my liege. 



ms 



Enter Raymond as prisoner, and Spaniards. 

Raym. Is this your governor ? 
I pray you, sir, chastise your vassals here i 
I have rebuk'd them, but they heed not me. 
The foul-mouth'd rogues report that by your order 
I am brought pris'ner here. It cannot be, 
That in defiance of all public faith. 
And the most solemn pledge 'twixt man and man, 
You have surpriz'd me. Oh, I see 'tis false ; 
Your kindling cheek disowns the foul aspersion, 
And blushes for this outrage of your slaves. 

Gov. {To the Attendants.) Retire. 
Go you, Almanza, to your chamber. [Exit Almanza. 
'Tis by my orders you are here. 

Raym. Indeed ! 
I then beg pardon of those humble knaves, 
And thank you for this high-born courtesy. 

Gov. You are too quick, sir. The great king, my 
master 

Raym. Did he bid thee do it ? 

Gov. Again you are too warm. The king, my 
master j 
Feels much good- will toward the Indian tribes. 

Raym. And takes this royal mode of shewing it. 

Gov. There was no other. Oft by friendly moans 



234 



I've tried to bring us face to face ; but still 
You scorn'd my profler'd love. 

Raym. I scorn it still. 
Is there no corner of the peopled earth 
But ye must come to ravage ? No small spot — 
No sea-encircled nook, where man may rest, 
But sordid gain, and bloody bigotry, 
Must spoil his poor inheritance. Shame, shame ! 
You have a country blest to overflowing 
With all the prodigality of nature : 
Your palaces, your buildings, and your pomp 
Of dress and equipage, fatigue the eye ; 
The daintiest viands crown your social boards ; 
Fruits that still ripen beneath golden suns ; 
Quick sparkling wine, that dances in the eye ; 
And women — ah, how lovely ! Yet, shame, shame ! 
You leave the harvest all unreap'd at home, 
To glean the scanty produce of our wastes ; 
And, like an envious churl, grasping at all, 
Whose eye still hungers, tho' his hands are full, 
Quit the encumb'ring fleeces of your flocks, 
To shear the poor man's lamb. 

Gov. With what an eye 
You look upon our purposes ! We came 
To enrich, and not impoverish this domain. 

Raym. Yes, as the bee brings honey to the flower, 



c 235 



Or locusts vegetation. To enrich us ! 

Your pardon, sir. Out of pure charity 

You have then crossed the ocean ; kindly come 

To pour the rich o'erflowings of your cup 

Into our empty chalice. Have you, then, 

No work for your benevolence at home*? 

No ignorance to school ? No sharp disease 

That cannot find an hospital of mercy ? 

No sighs to hush — no tears to wipe away 

Of your poor fellow countrymen ? Believe me, 

Your nation, sir, may find a home consumption 

For all the human kindness it exports. 

Look at nature : 

The lordly oak throws not its branches far, 

But meets a flower to shelter from the storm : 

Nor does a sea of roaring waters sever 

The poor man's hovel from the proud man's dome. 

Gov, Still you will warp our purpose from the 
truth. 
We came to do you service : to exchange 
Our wealth for your's in honourable traffic : 
To soften, to inform, to civilize. 

Raym. To civilize ! Peru and Mexico ! 
Pizarro ! Cortez ! witness ye the deed ! 
Yet, they had human shape, and bore God's image. 
Oh, what a wilderness of human bones 



236 



You made of that terrestrial paradise ! 
Hell gave the word, and havoc was unsheath'd : 
Rivers ran blood into the frighted sea : 
Earth was a common sepulchre ! The sun, 
Thro' the hot steam of human massacre, 
Look'd pale : whilst, o'er the dying and the dead, 
The vultures, hov'ring on the tainted air, 
Scream'd their wild raptures to the famish'd wolves. 

Gov. These were our fathers' doings; we abhor 
them : 
And it would shew a braver spirit, sir, 
To let them now be shrouded with the dust, 
That cannot rise and answer ye. 

Haym. Indeed ! ; 
Shall we, the living, for example kill, 
Yet scruple to anatomize the dead ? 
Shall the sepulchred spoilers of the earth 
Rot, and no record have but lying marble ? 
No. 'Tis some check to mad ambition's havoc, 
That when the grave his phrenzied dream has closed^ 
He has a reckoning with posterity. 
But to the purpose. You are come as friends : 
Your actions will prove that. This, sir, at parting : 
'Tis not by deeds of brotherhood like this 
The Creeks will reckon on your kind intentions. 
"What, hoa ! who waits there I 



237 



Enter Guards, 
Shew me to my dungeon. [Exit Raymond. 

Manet Gov. His presence awes me ; yet he must 
be won. 
A braver spirit never breath'd in man ; 
A nobler form moved never in a god. 
( To Abdallah.) Go, bid my daughter wait me in her 

chamber. 
That done, dispatch thee to the Indian chief, 
Prostrate thyself, and proffer him thy service. 

.-, . [Exeunt different ways. 

Scene, a Wood. 

Telico and Potowmak. 

Tel. Raymond a prisoner ! 

Pot. Ay, curses on him ! 

Tel. I could curse deeply, for I love him not. 
Besides that he has robb'd me of my hope, 
Dominion o'er the nations of the Creeks, 
He taunts me in the presence of our tribes 
For being savage : when I bring my scalps, 
He calls them trophies of a rude barbarian. 
Thrice my own captives, when the fire was kindled, 
He has releas'd from torture. How I hate him ! 



238 



Pot, He robb'd thee of dominion, that stings home 
Me of a woman whom I lov'd as life. 
And if I do forgive him 

Tel. Thou'rt no Indian. 

Enter a Creek, 
Creek, They are Spaniards. 
Tel, Bring them. 
Creek. They're here. 

Enter Creeks with Florio, Fernandez, and 

Gaspro, bound, 
Tel, Your business here ? who are you ? 

(To Fernandez.) 
Fer, Son to the Spanish Governor. 
Tel, Ha? (Aside,) And you (To Florio.) 
"What is your name ? 

Flo. I don't just now recollect it. 
Tel, Away with them, — how they shall be dis- 
posed of, we'll think anon. 

Flo, In the mean time you will give directions, 
that a picture of which I have been plundered be; 
restored. 

A Creek. This is it. 

Pot. Give me the picture. (Snatches it,) I have 
a use for it ; when it has served my purpose, it shall 
be yours again, Spaniard. 



839 



Tel. Away with them. 

[Exeunt Florio, Fernandez, and Gaspro. 
The light dawns on me, and my vigorous blood 
Leaps through my veins at the bright dawn of ven- 
geance. 

Pot. Their death shall cry for Raymond's. 

Tel. Nay not so : 
That policy, a Spaniard might have hit on. 
Grant if we kill these Spaniards, Raymond dies ; 
But then we stir the vengeance of these white men. 
Why do the deed, when the report will serve us ? 
E'er night-fall it shall reach the governor's ear^ 
His son has perish'd — Raymond's death will follow. 
Then when the Spaniard raging for revenge 
Sends forth his bloody myrmidons to hunt us, 
We will produce untouch'd our noble captives, 
And change their cry of war tograteful praise 5 
On our humanity. — Looks not this well ? 

Pot. I think it cannot fail. 
r. Tel. It shall not fail! 

So marvel not, I treat with courtesy 
These Spaniards, whom I hate as deadliest foes. 
The panther roars not, till his trembling prey 
Pants in his gripe : the monarch of the air 
Screams when he plants his talons. So will I, 
When I can strike, sound shrilly in the ears 



240 



Of these cursed white men, such a whoop of war, 
As shall be both a warning and a knell ; 
And like a frightful dream^ whose end is death, 
They shall awake to look upon their graves : 
Our foolish snake foretells his foe's destruction, 
The omen of his own — we, like the adder, 
Both hiss and bite at once^ secure of vengeance. 

[Exeunt. 



241 

ACT IL 

Scene, the Spanish Prison. 

"Raymond followed by an Officer. 

Raym. Your business is dispatch'd, sir. 

Offi. I was bid 

To wait upon you. 

Raym. I want no attendance : 
When I am bed-rid, I will send for you. 
I would be left alone : it is your business 
To see I do not starve, the rest is mine. {Exit Officer.) 
These Spaniards have me in the toil, and think 
To shape my spirit to their purposes. 
First they would soothe me : if that fails^ 'tis like 
I shall have stripes anon: just so they use 
A beast, by pampering his appetite. 
By violence they think to paralyse 
The holy powers of nature^ but they shall find 
That food, nor blows, caress, nor chastisement, 
Shall bury in oblivion the foul wrong 
By which I'm here. {Enter Abdallah.) 

Which of the devils art thou ? 

Abd. The slave Abdallah. 

Raym. What the governor sent thee ? 

Abd. Yes. 

R 



242 



Raym. For what purpose ? 

Abel. To be your slave too , 
To dance or sing to you 5 to bring you food 
Or drink, to watch you fearfully whilst sleeping, 
That I may fly, when you awake, to serve you. 

Raym. Away, I have no appetites that need 
A slave — for I am master of myself. 
Thy dance or song may soothe me, and I thank thee ; 
But for the other offices thou nam'st, 
Wert thou a dog, of but an hour's acquaintance, 
I would not so degrade thee. Hark ! 

( The sound of a guitar without.) 
What's that 

AM. 'Tis my young mistress. 

Raym. What Almanza ? 

Abd. Yes, 

Ray. Hark ! (She sings to the guitar.) 



The sun is sunk beneath the wave, 
The moon-beams twinkle on his grave, 
Oh whither does my hunter roam, 
When shadowy twilight calls thee home. 
No rustling brake betrays the deer, 
Couch'd in his covert sleeps the bear, 
The star of morning bade thee rove, 
But yon pale star does light to love. 
9 



Does tangling forest vex thy way ? 
Or reedy swamp thy foot betray ? 
Or has the twang of hostile bow, 
My gallant warrior, laid thee low ? 
Hark! 'tis his voice, he comes with spee:l, 
I knew the neighing of his steed ; 
Safe in my arms, you shall not rove^ 
Until the morning dawns., my love. 

Raym. What can this mean? Is it her custom 
thus, 
Like Philomela, chusing solitude, 
To soothe the house of mourning, 

Abd. No, her father, 

He bad her come and sing. 

Raym. Sits the wind so ? 

Abd. She comes this way. 

Raym, I will be frank with her. 
Enter Axmanza. 

Aim. My father bids me tell you, that till 
sunset, 
Passing your honour you will then return, 
You are at liberty. 

Raym. I thank you, lady, 

For being freedom's hand-maid. Is that all? 



2H 



Was there no further purport in your visit? 
Did not your father bid you practise, lady, 
Whilst with your hands you took my fetters off, 
T'enthrall me with your eyes ? Be honest now, 
And I'll be plain with you. 

Aim. You. have guess'd well 

My father's purpose, but these blushes, sir 
Are for his thoughts, not mine. I came, believe me, 
But by command. 

Raym. Hear then a simple tale, 

That to the purpose shall speak plain and full : 
Some years are past (no matter now the cause) 
Like jarring friends, I and my country parted .; 
I sought my fortune 'midst the Indian creeks. 
'Tw-as at the close of a long sultry day, 
Upon a wild savanna, faint with hunger, 
Shook with a fever, I look'd round in vain, 
For trace of living object, man or beast : 
But all was horrid stillness — on the ground 
I lay me down in absolute despair, 
So very sick at heart, that when at last 
My jaded senses dropt into oblivion, 
I car'd not, if mine eye-lids^ as they clos'd, 
Should ever open on another dawn. 
But long I slept not; sudden in mine ear 
These accents softly whisper'd — ** Wake, poor man. 



245 



i( White man, awake ; the rattlesnake is near ; 

" The tyger is not couch'd yet." I awoke : 

It was a woman — she drew back awhile 

To gaze full on me, and put forth her hand 

With such a look of kindness (pardon me, 

I ne'er can think on't with impunity) — 

She led me to her hut, brought me fresh food, 

And water from the spring — watch'd o'er my sleep, 

And when I woke, she brought me food again ; 

Thus three long weeks she nurs'd me, and meanwhile 

Taught me her language with a breath so sweet, 

And was so apt a scholar learning mine, 

(For of such little offices as these, 

The mighty sum of love is all made up) 

That with reviving health I drew in that 

Which wanted still a cure ; and not long after, 

When of the Creeks I was appointed chief ', 

Then I remember'd Zoa, and her care 

Of me at life's extremity. Yes, then, 

In the full face of our assembled warriors, 

I took her for my wife ; and shall I leave her ? 

No, not for all the white-complexion'd dames 

That dazzle Europe : never, never. 

Aim. Accursed be she who tempts thee. — I am 
come 
To seek your faithful friendship, not your love* 
r3 



M6 



If by a father's tyranny compell'd; 

And urg'd beyond the patience of my sex, 

I should take shelter with you — 

Raym. With the Creeks ? 

Aim, Ay, for I pant for freedom. 

Raym. True, 'tis sweet ; 

But to the bird who never stretch'd his wing, 
Or felt the season's sharp vicissitudes, 
Fed by your hand, and lodg'd within your bosom, 
Freedom is fatal, lady; — Have you ponder'd 
Well on the horrors of the savage state ? 
How our rude modes will shock your gentle breeding? 
Our simple fare mock your high-season'd palate ? 
Our mean attire your heavenly beauty shroud? 
On the bare earth can those soft limbs find slumber ? 
And then our habitations, — ah ! too mean 
For beasts to hovel in. 

Aim. Yes^ I have thought 

Of all the ills your fancy conjures up ; 
Ay, and of more : the road I know is rough, 
And I ill shod for such a pilgrimage ; 
Yet not the elements, nor man, nor beast, 
Can to this heart strike terror more profound, 
Than a stern father's uncontracting brow, 
Who, on the altar of his mad ambition, 
Would offer up his child. — Will you protect me ? 



Baym. Yet pause upon the brink of resolution, 
Nor in a fit of spleen, a flush of anger, 
A momentary tumult in the blood, 
Dothat which will bring long repentant days, 
Or nights of lonely hopeless meditation, 
And leave a sharp imperishable thorn , 
When all the rose is withered. 

Aim. You speak thus, 

Because I am a woman. 

Raym. No, believe me, 

Oh ! when the loud-tongued trumpet, and the drum, 
Stirs all his soul, a soldier's wounds but warm him ; 
But in the after calm, when slaughter sleeps, 
Then as he festers in the midnight air, 
And raw winds pierce his mangled body thro', 
He curses honour and disclaims ambition. 
I could say more, if time would halt to hear me; 

But the day wears, and e'er the downward sun 

Kisses the ocean, I would see the Creeks; 

Suffice it, lady, after having calPd 

Your thoughts to counsel, should you still resolve 

To keep your desp'rate resolution, 

Such welcome as rude savages can give, 

You may command. 

Aim. Come I will lead you to the light of day, 

Would I could bear to all, the thrilling voice 

r4 



MS 



Of liberty, and thro' the peopled earth, 

Unbar the dungeons of captivity. \jExeitnt. 

Scene, the Governor's House. 

Gonsalvo and Abdallah. 

Gons. My daughter not return'd ? 

Abd. ' \ She's coming, sir. 

Gons. Say, I would speak with her. (Exit Ab- 
dallah.) 'Tis now unlucky 
I ever promised her to Florio ; 
I was too sudden in my resolution : 
The wise make no resolves — for still to-morrow 
Laughs at the cunning purpose of to-day, 
And man's the slave of circumstance. (Enter Almanza.) 

Well, girl, 
What think you of our Indian prisoner ? 
Could you not love him ? 

Aim. Yes, my father, 

As I love all men, charitably love him ; 
But never with that fulness of the heart, 
Which can love only one — He has a wife, sir, 

Gons. He may divorce her. 

Aim. Why then he shall not. 

Gons. How ? 

Aim. Be not angry, sir. I have been ever 
A most obedient child; from memory's dawn * 

* This speech is transferred from The Curfew. 



I've hung with silent awe upon your lips, 
And in my heart your counsels treasured up* 
Next to the hallow'd precepts of my God : 
But with a new delight my bosom throbb'di 
When first you talk'd of Florio. — You said, sir, 
He was a handsome youth — I thought so too — 
A brave one ; my heart beat with fearful joy. 
You said he was not rich, I heav'd a sigh 
And turn'd my head ; but whilst the struggling tear 
Stood in my eye, you swore that fortune's gifts 
Were mean.compar'd with nature's — Then, my father, 
You bad me learn to love him. 

Gons. Once indeed 

I had a foolish dream of such a thing. 

Aim. Oh, but I dream so stilL 

Gons. 'Tis time to wake then. 

Enter Gaspro. 
Well, sir, why break you in with that pale face ? 
There lives a wild impatience in your looks, 
To utter horrid tidings — Speak ! 

Gasp. Your son ! 

Gons. Well, what of him ? Is he made pris'ner, 
speak ; 
Or fallen from his horse ? the worst, and quickly. 
Gasp. Near to the line which parts us from the 
Creeks, 



250 



We rous'd a stag, which soon o'erleapt the boundary. 

Hot in pursuit, disdaining to be foil'd, 

Your son press'd boldly on, and bade us follow. 

Young Florio gave his willing steed the rein, 

And Perez and myself spurr'd panting after, 

I being far the hindermost. — Soon the rest 

Became entangled in a reedy swamp, 

Where, whilst they plung'd to extricate themselves, 

A swarm of Indians with an hideous yell 

Sprang from the woods, and made them prisoners. 

Gons. And thou didst fly, didst basely fly, to save 
Thy coward life. 

Gaspi Perhaps to save my master's : 

1 thought my flight, for they were arni'd and many. 
Might do him service t nor without much peril 
Did X achieve my purpose ; for their arrows, 
Like swarming adders, hiss'd around to sting me. 

Gons. Well, well; their chief is in my power* 
Confusion ! 
Should he have left the prison. 

Aim. 'Tis even so ; 

He left it, sir, with me* 

Gons. He has escap'd then. 

Aim. No, I would pledge my soul upon his honour. 

Gons. Summon the soldiers ! Pedro, which way 
went he f 



m 



Did no one mark him ? Quick ! a guard ! You, Gaspro, 
Must guide us to the Indians/ Beat the drum 
Upon the ramparts. I'll not trust his honour: 
No, nor the mercy of these savages. 
Saddle another horse for Gaspro. Come, 
We'll hunt them to their hiding-place. Away ! 

[Exeunt all but Almanza. 
Mm. Florio a prisoner with the Creeks ! Alas ! 
There is no time to pause then. I can find 
The path which Raymond took : and to disguise 
The better both my quality and country, 
I'll paint my face : and to have borrowed plumes, 
I'll buy the dress of the poor Indian girl 
That waits upon me. Thus apparell'd, boldly* 

Should I miss Raymond, I will seek out Zoa. 

Courage, my heart 1 My body is but small ; 

Yet feel I here within a braver spirit 

Than these frail limbs will vouch for. Then, adieu I 

My unkind father: yet I leave you not 

Till your affection has forsaken me. [Exit, 



Scene, the Creeks, Fernandez, Florio, and 
Perez, bound* 

Fern. Peace* Florio. 



252 

Flor. Every man, you know, is allowed to make 
his own funeral oration. You, sir, I presume, {to 
Telico) are master of the ceremonies to this Indian 
auto da fe. 

Tel. Well! 

Flor.. Now, though I have been always very 
strongly of opinion that I should die one time or 
other, I can't say that I feel completely reconciled to 
this mode of making my exit. 

Fern. Can't you be quiet ? 

Flor. In the first place, my constitution is always 
extremely incommoded by excessive heat: then I've 
such a natural aversion to pain, that I shall disgrace 
your entertainment, and roar most confoundedly : 
therefore, sir> if you would administer water to us 
instead of fire^, or at all events give us a little of both ; 
or if you would do us the favour to dispatch us in a 
gentlemanly christian-like manner, by breaking us 
on the wheel, or hanging, or a la Turque, by the 
bowstring, or impaling us alive, we shall feel the 
obligation as long as we remain in this world ; and do 
all the good offices w«e can for you in the next. 

Tel. Unloose that man. 

[Pointing to Perez, whom they unbind.) 

Flor. So, Perez is to be cook'd first. Well, it's 



253 



the first time he ever took precedence of his master ; 
and I forgive him with all my heart and soul. 

Tel. You may depart, sir. (To Perez.) 

Fern, and Flor. How ! 

Tel. D'ye hesitate ? 
I say you may depart : there is your horse ; 
Quickly bestride him then : but look not back, 
Or death will overtake you. Tell your master, 
That for our captive chief his son shall die : 
And halloo with full voice into his ear 
That Telico . — I — lit the fire ! Away ! [Exit Perez. 
So, he is mounted : by the soul of man 
He puts his courser to the proof. 

Flor. Would he were carrying double, though 1 
rode behind. 

Tel. {To Potowmak.) Now we'lf release them. 

Pot. Ay. 

Tel. Set their limbs free. We war not with the 
Spaniards ; 
And though with this grim face of preparation 
We frighted yonder fool that flies so fast, 
We never had a thought against your lives ; 
No, nor your liberty. 

Flor. I knew you couldn't be in earnest. 

Tel. You must remain with us to-night : to-morrow 
Shall give you liberty. Come, you shall see, 



254 



Since now we have acknowledged you as friends, 

"How we should treat our enemies, j 

{The ceremony of sacrificing prisoners is gone 
through^ in which a dance may be introduced, 
and the following verses sung.) 

Ye, whose death still unrequited, 
Groans for vengeance from the tomb, 
Hither, from the land of spirits, 
Souls of slaughtered warriors, come. 

Let the song of death arouse ye ; 
Let it sooth your deep despair ; 
As, with wild delight, ye hover 
On the blood-polluted air. 

Ye have drank revenge full deep ; 
Souls of slaughtered warriors sleep. 

And thou, god of battle, hear us ; 
Thou, who in the fight art near us, 

Mighty Aro-uski, hear. 
Sweet and lovely, in thine eyes, 
Is the purple sacrifice ; 

And the sounds to thee are dear, 
When mingling float around thy thront 
Victor's shout — victim's groan. 



255 

ACT III. 

Assembly of the Indian Chiefs, 

Potowmak rises and addresses them. 

Pot. Why we are met, my fellow countrymen. 
Needs no discourse. Your universal cry 
Is vengeance ; and the purpose of your souls 
Shines in the grasp of your uplifted steel. 
Yet how to strike the blow demands a pause : 
And first, whilst in remote captivity 
Raymond is bound, I think some other warrior 
Should be proclaim'd our leader. 

An Indian, Right ! but who ? 

Who shall succeed to Raymond ? 

Another Indian, Why, Potowmak ! 

Other Indians, Ay, ay, Potowmak, he shall be our 
chief! 

Another Indian, Who dares oppose it ? € 

Pot. r. 

My heart beats high to thank you ; but this arm 
Wields not the thunder of your captive chief. 
There is a man (I speak not in contempt 
Of other warriors) fit to succeed Raymond: 
And only one. 

Indians, Name him. 



256 

Pot. His actions shall proclaim him. You have 
seen 
His arm thro' danger cleave a dreadful path. 
Like lightning you have heard the mortal twang 
Of his unerring bow-string : you his scalps 
Have number'd, and have counted o'er his scars, 
That once were bleeding wounds. Yet — need I name 

him ? 
Hmv, to whom war is rest and nourishment : 
Who loves the peril best that looks most grim ! 
Shame on your memories. That night of hell 
Have you forgot when, from the naked brow 
Of yonder promontory we turn'd pale, 
To see the warring elements encounter, 
Sudden he leapt into the foaming darkness. 
Indian. ? Twas Telico. 

Pot. Each shrinking eye involuntary clos'd, 
Nor op'd but by degrees^ with trembling wonder, 
To see him on the billows fix his throne, 
And ride upon the tempest to the shore. 

{As he concludes, Telico enters, with a digni- p 
Jied air. 
Indian, He shall be our chief. 
Indians. Ay, Telico, Telico shall be our chief ! 

(Raymond enters from the opposite side, 
Raym. You have well determin'd, 



257 

Tel, Gonfusion ! He return'd ! (Aside. 

(The Indians crowd round Raymond. 

An Indian. 'Tis he ! and safe ! 

Raym. Spare your congratulations, Creeks : ere 
sun-set 
I must return. 

Tel. , How ! (Aside. 

An Indian. Return ere sunset ? 

Raym. My word is plighted • who would have me 
break it ? 

Indian. They keep no faith with us. 

Raym. And therefore, Creek, 
They want a fair example. 

Indian. They have broken 

The common bond of nations. 

Raym. What of that ? 

All Europeans lie,: is, therefore, truth 
To find no temple in the human breast ? 
Shall I take up with vice at second hand ; 
And be the shadow of deformity ? 
I tell you I have promis'd : therefore, peace ! 
Nor let us waste the time that speeds so fast. 
Telico— 

Tel. Well! 

Raym. They have proclaim'd thee chief. 

Tel. Tl^ey did it freely. 



253 



Raym. Ay, and wisely too : 

If thy great spirit were as quick to spare 
As it is prone to conquer, there's not one 
Of all our mighty nations — not a Creek 
Could boast a soul so terrible as thine. 
For thou dread'st nothing. 

Tel. One thing. 

Maym. What can that be ? 

Tel. The friendship of a Spaniard. 

Maym. Dread it still : 

Commune not with them ; they have spells to curse 

ye: 
There is a treacherous sorcery in their bowl ; 
However pledg'd, their drink shall make you mad. 

Tel. They are come for gold. 
An Indian (some years since) in the mountains found 
Some grains of that curs'd metal, which he sold 
To a wreck' d Spaniard. He, returning home, 
Brought here this swarm of spoilers. 

Baym. You say true ; 

That was the spell that charm'd them ; they are come 
To make you slaves, to dig their glitt'ring idol, 
And beasts to bear the burden to their coffers. 
But ye are men, not beasts: ye will not suffer 
These fierce hyenas of the wilderness 
To violate the graves of your forefathers. 



259 

And change the habitations of the dead 
To charnel-houses for the living. No. 
(But yon declining orb half meets his goal) 
Chiefs, warriors, friends, my Creeks, my fellow men, 
I must away — to chains — perhaps to death ! 
Then look upon me as a dying man, 
Who has a parting fond request to make ; 
And when 'tis granted, shuts his eyes in peace. 
Indians. Speak ; we will do it. 
Haym. I heed not pain — I start not at the grave : 
But when this perishable frame decays 
In dust and darkness, tell the Spaniards thus : 
" Three moons we give you to depart in peace : 
Our. forests shall repair your sea-worn ships : 
Whate'er our land produces, victual them :" 
Then, when the work of preparation's o'er ; 
When in their flapping sails the wind plays fair, 
And rattles in the cordage — - speed them on, 
And wish them happy in their native land : 

But if they should refuse {They lift their hatchets.) 

Ay, then strike home 1 
You have no choice. This land, that cannot be 
A peaceful habitation to you both, 
Must be a grave to one. Then sweep, at once, 
These robbers from your country : leave no trace 
Of aught that's Spaniard : let the memory 

s % 



260 



Even of their crimes be razed. 
And perish to our children. 

Indians. We will remember. 

Raym. Why then, farewell. Potowmak, Telico, 
Cherish my words. Farewell. Now to my fate. 

Enter Zoa. 

Zoa. My life, my soul, my husband. 

Raym. Ha ! this I look'd not for. (Aside.) 

Tel. (To Potowmak.) She'll ruin all. 

Pot. Fear not — her whole sex could not move him. 

Tel. Mark them. 

Zoa. You will not speak to me. Nay, now I see 
The cause ; your joy can find no words. Yet speak : 
Come, you look weary. 'Neath our orange tree, 
Upon the dry turf, you shall sleep, and I 
Will watch you ; whilst the soft winds gently shake 
The o'er-blown blossoms on your perfum'd rest. 

Raym. I cannot bear it. 

Tel. He relents. (Aside.) 

Raym. My wife i 

We must this moment part. 

Pot. (7b Telico.) He'll keep his word. 

Raym. Hear me, Zoa. 

I must, ere sunset, (for my word is pass'd) 
To prison. 



261 



Zoa. Be it so ; there will I dwell. 

Raym. Perhaps to death ! 

Zoa. Then it shall be my tomb. 

But why to prison ?. 

Raym. I have promis'd so; 

Shall I betray my faith ? 

Zoa. No, not for worlds; 

For when you took this hand; and kiss'd it first, 
You pledg'd your faith that death alone should part us. 
What is a prison, but a closer home ? 
Have I not on the sky-roof 'd mountain slept, 
Rock'd by the whirlwind ;. and when loud and dark. 
The midnight march of the careering storm 
Howl'd o'er the uprooting pine ; when nature quak'd^ 
As with the mighty throb of dissolution, 
Amidst the various tumult of my soul, 
Have I not felt the sweetness ef thy presence ? 
What, though the walls be damp and desolate ;. 
The house of famine, pestilence, and death, 
Is it not thine — and shall you dwell alone ? 
'Tis such a place that cries aloud for comfort. 
What charm can comfort bring to man like woman ? 
What woman like a wife ? Let me go with you. 

'Raym. It cannot be. 

Tel. She moves him e'en to tears. (Aside.) 

Pot. Yet he is fix'd. 

s3 



26% 



%oa. I will but watch thee with unwinking eye; 
And if a tear upon thy cheek should light, 
I'll kiss it gently off, and still forbear to wake thee, 

JRaym. I cannot bear it. Telico ! — Potowmak ! 
Tear us asunder. {.They part them.) Will you basely 

stand 
And see your chief dishonour'd by a woman ? 
Farewell. My manhood never shrunk till now. {Aside.) 
Be kind and gentle to her. Oh I farewell ! [Exit. 

Zoa. (Breaking indignantly from the Creeks.) Zoais 
never wont to force her love 
Where 'tis not welcome. Yet, 'tis somewhat strange; 
I ask with him to share captivity, 
And he refuses me. 

Pot. ( To Telico.) It strikes her deeply : 
Withdraw the Creeks, and leave us. [They retire, 

Potowmak and Zoa. 

Zoa. And why am I forbidden to partake 
His bread and water, and his scanty straw ; 
And (i 'tis a place ill fitted to my sex :" 
As if I had a soul to be dismay'd 
With what these Spaniards can inflict. 'Tis strange, 
There must be something more. 

Pot. He must return, 



268 



Forsooth, ^o take his honour out of pawn. 

It may be deeper pledg'd than heinform'd us. 

Zoa. What can he mean ? 

Pot. To sell us. 

Zoa. Fie upon thee ! 

Pot. The governor has offer'd him large bribes. 

Zoa. Yes, but his soul is larger. 

Pot. Proof against go] d, 

He still may yield to beauty. 

Zoa... What? 

Pot. The Spaniard. 

Has a fair daughter*, 

Zoa. Raymond has a wife. 

Pot. Soon he'll have two, or fame belies him much* 
'Tis said she loves him ; language cannot paint it ; 
'Tis certain that she visits him in prison. 

Zoa* Thou art a man of truth ; oh, do not mock me. 

Pot. As I've a. soul 'tis true. But mark me right, 
I do not say 'tis love : I only vouch 
That she, alone, by stealth, to his dark eel], 
Out of pure charity, perhaps, has stolen._ 
'Tis whisper'd, tho' I credit not the tale, 
A Spanish priest has ratified their vows. 

Zoa. His wife ! the wife of Raymond ! What am I ? 
Say, is she very beautiful ? His wife ! 
And brave r and young ; tall, or of middle stature ; 
s 4 



Of what bewitching colour are her eyes — 
Majestic in her gait ? Speak. 

(Potowmak shews her the picture he took from 
Florio. 

Is that she ? 

Pot, It wants but breath to be her living self. 

Zoa. Where got you that ? 

Pot. 'Tis Raymond's. 

Zoa. Came it from her ? 

Pot. 1 know not that : but fearing he might damage 
Or lose the thing, he gave it me in charge. 

Zoa. Let me look on it. (Takes it.) What a face i& 
here ! 
How fresh the red and white of her complexion : 
The parting locks that hang on either side 
Of this fair forehead. What his wife ? These lips, 
They can talk many languages, and sing 
The song of his own country. This white hand — 
Yet shall she be his wife ? This hand can play 
On many instruments, and knows, by turns, 
A thousand witcheries to charm him from me. 
I never thought how foul I look'd till now. 

Pot. What, do you weep ? With bare suspicion 
weep. 
What, tho' she steals to his dungeon — that's no proof 
Of warmth beyond esteem. And for that bauble, 



265 



Perhaps, tho' somewhat it does strain belief, 
He may have found it. Or suppose the worst, 
Grant they are wedded 

Zoa. How i 

Pot. You're still his wife : 

Somewhat diminish'd from your former self, 
But yet his wife : reft of his love, indeed, 
But still entitled to civility : 
Doom'd to some galling offices, perhaps ; 
To serve where you commanded ; to stand by, 
And see them mingle kisses in the cup. 

Zoa. I will have vengeance ! 
Hence, and let me think. 

Pot. Give me the picture then. 

Zoa. Away, Potowmak; 

I'll bring it presently. 

Pot. Fie on these thoughts ! 
You are an Indian woman, who, till wrong'd, 
Shouldst feel affection, and when wrong'd 

Zoa. Revenge. 

I want not to be schooled. Away ! 

Pot. Farewell, then. [Exit. 

Zoa. Think' st thou I'll weep, and load the air with 
sighs : 
A spectacle of pity, sit me down, 
That men may cry " Poor Zoa" as they pass ! 
No, let the breath that should be spent in sighs < 



%ffi 



Blow the loose sparks of vengeance to a flame ; 

And my hot tears like scanty water feed it't 

White man, beware, for thou hast wrong'd my love, 

And thou his fair fac'd minion keep aloof, 

Out of my hatchets sweep, beyond the flight 

Of the wing'd death that in my quiver sleeps, 

Or I shall strew thy tresses on the earth, 

And feed the vultures with these dainty limbs*. 

Enter Almanza disguised as an Indian woman. 

Zoa. Ha ! Who art thou ? 

Aim. One who has broke upon your meditations, 
To learn the shortest road to Zoa's hut. 

Zoa. What is thy business with her? I am she. 
Thou art not of our tribe. 

Aim. Nor of your country — 

You see a Spanish fugitive. 

Zoa. A Spaniard? 

Thou art the governor's daughter ? 'Tis by heav'ns ! 

(Aside.) 

Aim. You have guess'd boldly, think not there- 
fore rightly. 

Zoa. Your pale cheek tells me 'tis a cunning guess, 
A true one, lady. 

Aim. Who and what I am 

You shall be told hereafter ; now suffice it, 
I am the friend of Raymond. 



267 

Zoa. Have you seen him ? 

Aim. Yes. 

Zoa. In his prison ? Did you visit him ? 

Aim. I was the herald of his liberty. — 

Zoa. Oh 'twas a truly charitable thought 
To visit a poor captive in his cell : 
And tho' cold-blooded prudence at the deed 
Might shake her head; and envy look awry, 
Yet we have souls above such sorry fancies: 
We know to prize the act, and clasp the doer 
In the warm fold of friendship — Raymond's friend 
Must be the friend of Zoa. You look weary ; 
Come, I will lead you to my hut. — Believe me, 
I feel with a keen sense the obligation, 
And hope ere long to thank you as I ought. [Exeunt, 



268 

ACT IV. 

Governor's Home, 

Gonsalvo as returning from the pursuit oftheTn* 
dians, "with Attendants. 

Gons, It is in vain — My rage is idly spent, 
Wild as the wind that o'er the desert sweeps. 
My heedless boy ! Oh, should this Indian scape me, 
It may go hard with thee — (Enter a Messenger.) 

Messenger, He's here. 

Gons* The Indian? 

Raym, (Entering,) Stand by, and let me pass. 

Gon. Then all is well. 

Raym. You see I keep my word, sir, 

Gons. You may have heard 
My son, another Spanish gentleman, 
And their attendant, by your savage tribes, 
Have been most basely seiz'd, 

Raym. What, by the Creeks ? 

Gons, Yes, and are now detain'd 

Raym, As prisoners, sir ? 
Seiz'd without provocation, and unarm'd. 

Gons. Ay, as they hunted — 

Raym, 'Tis a grievous fault, 
In savage Indians most unpardonable ; 



269 



Had they been Spaniards, who to serve their turn, 
Had kidnapp'd an unciviliz'd Creek, 
Whilst they held out to him the right hand of friend- 
ship, 
Something might have been said: — but for rudeCreeks, 
Excuse me whilst I hang my head and blush, 
That they should so forget humanity. — 

Gon. I understand your sneer ; but mark me, sir, 
If they but scratch my boy — observe me well, 
If they draw from him but one drop of blood; 
Thou shalt be rack'd and tortur'd, till thy groans 
Have reach' d the topmost note of agony. 

Raym. Gnats and musquitoes. 

Gons. Mark me well, 

Thou shalt be years in dying. 

Perez. (Entering.) Where's the governor, 

Gon. Ha ! what bringest thou? out with thy horrid 
tale: 
It cannot be more dismal than thy looks ; 
Nor can my cheek grow paler with the news, 
Than thine is in the bearing it. Proceed — 

Per. Thy son and Florio, 

Gons. They are dead — go on. 

Per. I hope not so. 

Gons. And yet thou fear'st it, speak. 

Per. We were made prisoners. 



270 

Gons, Psha ! what follow'd ? quick — 

Per. They bound and led us deep into the wood, 
Where, after a short council of their chiefs, 
We were brought forth — 

Gon. Proceed, I am prepar'd ; 

Per. Deep in the earth, the fatal stakes were driv'n, 
And their wild shouts promiscuous fill'd the air ; 
When starting from the rest, a chief advane'd, 
They calPd him Telico. — 
Raym. Why, then, 'tis done. 

Per. On meheglar'd,androar'd "Unloosehis bonds." 
Then " Get thee quick to horse, and look not back, 
Or death will overtake thee : tell your master 
That for our captive chiefj his son shall die ; 
Go tell him," (and he whirled a lighted brand, 
With savage exultation in the air) 
« Tell him that Telico, I, lit the fire." 
Hoping they might suspend their damned rights, 
I sprung upon my steed and spurr'd him hard ; 
But, as I bore the tidings fleetly on, 
The savage war-song burst upon mine ear ; 
And oft between — 

Gons. Proceed, I know the worst. 

Per. The shriek of agony — 

Gons. Then they are dead — 
Go ring the alarum — summon all the troops. 



271 

Hold, 'tis too late — I rave — It cannot be — * 
'Twill but redeem their half-consumed bones. 
Merciless devils ! — Men ! No, they are devils — - 
Without a cause to murder in cold blood ! 
Yet thou art in my gripe, and I will plague thee. 

Raym, Will that revive them ? will my flowing 
Blood their empty veins replenish ? will my groans, 
(If I should groan) erect the ear of death ? 

Gons. Bear him to prison. 

Itaym. You may extinguish life, 

But cannot give it e'en unto the worm, 
Which your poor malice tramples on. [Exit guarded. 

Gons. {After a pause.) Abdallah, 
I do but call, and thou art quick as thought, 
To do thy master's bidding. — I have mark'd 
Thy forward zeal, and will reward thee. — What, 
If I should give thee liberty — {He falls at the Gover- 
nor's feet.) 

Nay, rise. 

Abd. What, make me free ? 

Gons. I do not jest ; once more 
I'll put thine honest service to the proof, 
And having done the thing, thou'rt free as air, 
Abd. Name it, that I may fly. What is it? Quick I 
Gons. To kill this Indian. 
Abd. {After a struggle.) My liberty ? 



Gons. - For ever. 

Abd. Murder him ? {Aside.) 

Shall I go back to my own country, sir ? 

Gons. Ay. 

Abd. Once more behold the spot 

Where I was born ; and when I die, be buried 
Where all my father's sleep. * And yet, to kill him — 

(Aside.) 

Gons. Are you resolved ? 

Abd. Well — how? 

Gons. When he's asleep 

A single blow dispatches him. 

Abd, I'll do it. 

Gone. Or you may drug his cup. 

Abd. That will be better. 

Gons. Quick, then, to thy task ; 

And when it shall be whisper'd in mine ear 
That thou hast thrown his carcase in the sea, 
I am no more thy master. 

Abd. I'll about it. [Exit. 

GONSALVO SOluS* 

Yet what avails it me when he is gone ? 

I am at most a miserable man ; 

A tree that put two blooming branches forth, 

Of which the nobler is for ever wither'd, 

And that which lives grows crooked and perverse. 



To plague the trunk it springs from. My poor boy \ 

Perhaps they have not kill'd him. Perhaps, 

Out of their very cruelty, they've spared 

For fiercer tortures still his mangled form. 

Yet I will hunt these monsters to their den. 

Perez can track them. He may yet survive : 

Or if extinguish'd quite 5 like Afric's kings 

Who have their monuments of human skulls, 

I'll build him up a pile of Indian dead, 

That shall commemorate the inhuman deed. [Exit. 

Scene> the Wood. 

Enter Zoa, leading Almanza. 

%oa. This is my habitation. Thou shalt sleep 
Sound and secure beneath its humble roof; 
Whilst, like a bird that circles round its young, 
I will keep danger from thee. [.They go into the hut* 

Fernandez and Florio. 

Fern. Are you mad, Florio ? 

Flor. Not absolutely mad ; but so desperately in 
love on a sudden, that I would give one of my eyes 
for a ten minutes tete a tete with her. 

Fern. You are more likely to part with both your 
ears; that's the settled price for a lady's favours 
here. 

T 



274 

Flor. Yes, for the favours of a married lady ; but 
one may be decently civil to a maid, without losing 
any thing but one's heart. 

Fern, True, but my sister has your heart, you 
know. 

Flor. Well, and that's as much of a man as a reason- 
able woman can expect before marriage. Look'e, 
Fernandez, I love thy sister as a woman ought to be 
loved ; but I am not one of those unmerciful gallants 
who think the best proof of their attachment to one 
lady is absolute rudeness to the rest of the sex. I 
should be in love with thy sister only, 'tis true, but 
then I may be in charity with all women. [Looking 
into the hut.) How unfortunate that there should be 
two of them. Well, there are two of us. If her 
friend, now, would only have the good breeding to — 
by heavens, the very thing. Stand back, Fernandez, 
stand back, I say, and don't spoil the only opportunity 
that may ever offer us, of learning how the ladies like 
to be made love to in this part of the world. 

Enter Zoa from the hut. 

Zoa. Yes, I will watch thee like the bird of night, 
That, having hous'd his victim, shrieks aloud, 
And in the drowsy twilight flaps his wings 
To scare away the lonely passenger; [Exit* 



275 

JFem. She seems angry, I think. 

Flor. Yes, they have been quarrelling for me ; 
but as they have settled the point at last, you hate 
only to follow your good fortune, and leave me to 
pursue mine. 

Fern. Farewell, then. Yet, for heaven's sake re- 
member, your life depends on your good conduct. 

[Exit. 

Flor. I had much rather it depended upon any 
thing else. {Looks into the hut.) Not yet asleep* 
but certainly preparing for her siesta. She looks 
quite fatigued : has been buffalo hunting, I suppose : 
rather a powerful exercise for the fair sex. Pray, 
heaven, she be a spinster; for they tell me these 
Indians make no more ceremony of cropping a man's 
ears close to his head, than we do in trimming a ter- 
rier puppy. {Goes into the hut.) 

The Interior of the Hut. 

Aim. If I well observed his looks, Florio would be 
shewing his gallantry. He shan't know me, however, 
till I see whether I'm my own rival. 

Flo Fa o enter s, she starts. 

Flor. Don't be frightened, lady : 'tis but a man ; a 
very young one ; who, being a stranger in this part of 

T c 2 



276 

the world, and having an insurmountable curiosity to 
see the inside of an Indian hut, has taken the liberty 
to introduce himself. If I have offended, I'll retire. 

Aim. Oh no. I'll see the extent of his curiosity, 
however. {Aside.) 

Flor. Now to learn whether she be married. 
{Aside.) Perhaps I have chosen an unseasonable 
hour — you may expect the return of a jealous hus- 
band ? 

Aim. No. 

Flor. Why is it possible you are not married ? 

Aim. Very possible. 

Flor. My ears are safe, however. {Aside.) But 
still you may be waiting for some favour'd lover? 

Aim. No, I did'nt expect him. 

Flor. Then you have a lover perhaps ? 

Aim. Yes, but he cares not for poor Abacoa. 

Flor. Inconstant ! here's an opening. {Aside.) 

And can he bear the pangs of absence? 

Aim* Oh, yes, without breaking his heart; for 
though he left me not an hour ago, and swore eternal 
truth and constancy (as they tell me you Spaniards 
do), yet I dare say, by this time, he's making love to 
the first woman he meets. 

Flor. Your suspicions wrong him : those eyes — - 
that shape — that complexion 

8 



277 

Aim. Complexion ! Oh, fye, fye; praise an Indian 
girl for her complexion ! I thought you Spaniards 
flatter'd with more judgment* 

Flor. Then, as I hope to be saved, though the 
women of our country have some advantages, yet in 
point of complexion there's no comparison ; you alone 
bear the original stamp of nature : the first women 
she made were precisely of your colour ; but whether 
she exhausted her materials, or lost her art, I protest 
I can't tell, but she has ever since been blundering 
into the two opposite extremes, and has produced 
nothing but black and white ones. 

Aim. Well, that's ingenious — what would you 
have said to me, had I been fair ? 

Flor. Umph — You know we must say something 
civil upon these occasions — I should have talked of 
roses and lilies, and auburn and alabaster, and 
celestial blue ; but, upon my soul, I should not have 
admired you half so much. But is it possible your 
lover can be inconstant ? 

Aim, Even so — what must I do with him ? 

Flor. Endeavour to reform him : if you find him 
incorrigible, you have nothing then left for it, but to 
follow his example. 

Aim. Oh fie ! 

Flo. Nay, if in spite of all you can say, he is 
* tS 



278 

determined to make love to the first woman he meets? 
what have you to do but, if you should like him, to 
fall in love with the first man you meet. 

Aim. Will you be my lover then? 

Flor. With the greatest pleasure. 

Aim. But will you be my husband too ? 

Flor. Husband ! Pray, madam, how long do mar- 
riages last in your country ? 

Aim. No longer than affection. 

Flor. Why that in most European states would be 
a very reasonable time: pray how long is it here ? 

Aim. Only till death. 

Flor. Umph — that is rather an unreasonable time ; 
but if you and I should marry, will it be necessary 
we should like together so long? 

Aim. Oh, no ! by no means. 

Flor. I'll be passionately fond of you whilst I stay 
in this part of the country. 

Aim. I shall expect no more. 

Flor. And you will be content to take me upon 
those terms ? 

Aim. Most gladly. 

Flor. Upon my soul the women here understand 
common sense. {Aside.) 

Aim. But you must leave me now. 

Flor. Leave you ? 



279 

Aim, Yes, immediately. 

Flor. But when shall I see you again ? 

Aim, To-night, perhaps ; if not, early to-morrow. 

Flor. Nay, let it be to-night. 

Aim, Well, well, but leave me now. 

Flor. This is confoundedly tantalizing. (Aside.) 
Farewell, I forget your name tho\ 

Aim. Abacoa. 

Flor, Abacoa : a very pretty name. We must 
part in the European fashion, f Kisses her. J Who 
would suppose her to be a Catabaw by the taste of her 
lips. [Exit. 

Aim. alone. This may produce excellent sport, 
but now to rest. I'll dream of some device to punish 
him for thus letting me seduce him from myself. 

[Exit, 

Scene, a Prison. 

Raymond sleeping, — Abdallah enters with a dagger, 
and listens. 

Abd. Soundly he sleeps : the blow were easy now, 
yet should I strike amiss and wake him. Ha ! 

[He retires. Raymond starts from his sleep. 
Raym, Away ; I will not go : unlock my hand, 
T 4 • 



280 



For thou art death. Am I awake ? amazement ! 

? Twas but an apparition, one of those 

That rouse the sleeping faculties of man, 

To mock his waking apprehension. 

I have beheld in my distemper'd rest 

Forms of all shape and colour, but a thing 

So grossly palpable to sight as that : 

Never brush'd off oblivion from my lids. 

What lurking friend art thou ? {Seeing Abdallah.) 

Abd. It is Abdallah, 

The slave who waits on you. Pray now employ me, 
J)o you want nothing ? Let me fetch you drink. 

Maym. 'Tis strange you should intrude your offices, 
And, like a worm, crawl to be trod upon. 

Abd. What can I do ? 

Haym. If you will be a slave 

I would have drink : my tongue cleaves to my palate, 
A glass of water, and I'll thank thee, fellow. 

Abd. Now then, or never. {Aside.) 

Haym. How the rogue bestirs him. 

(Abdallah returns, arid brings poison in wine.) 

Haym. That is not water. 

Abd. No, 'tis wine, 'twill cheer 

Thy sinking heart, and make it dance with joy. 

JEtaym. I will have none on't, 'tis the damned juice 
That makes fools ideots, and the quick-brain'd mad. 



281 



Your European poison, well no matter. (Takes the 
What is the reason that you tremble thus ? cup.) 

And your teeth chatter, and the sweat starts from thee, 
Your knees each other smite, your eyes draw inward, 
Your woolly locks uncurl and stand erect. 
What ails thee fellow ? 

Abd. (Trembling.) Nothing. 
Raym. Then jtis so. (Aside.) 

What's in the cup ? It is a damned draught, 
And I will pledge thee. 

( AbdaIs-l ah falls prostrate.) 
Poison, on my life. 
(Abd allah kneels in a supplicating posture.) 
Raym. Kneel not to me. 

Abd. Oh, yes ! till you forgive me. 

Raym. Who set you on ? the governor ? 'twas he, 
He promis'd thee reward ? 

Abd. Yes, great reward, my liberty. 
Raym. Poor fellow! 

Abd, He told me I should see again my country, 
That I should die at home, and lay my bones 
Beneath the tree I planted. 

Raym. I forgive thee. 

To have escap'd from thy condition, 
And be a man again, I might have done 
Deeds horrible to think on. I forgive thee. 



Come, give me drinks I do not fear thee now. 
See that it be pure water from the spring. 

(Abdallah goes out.) 
This governor to steal man's birthright from him, 
And bribe him with't to shed his fellow's blood. 

(Abdallah returns.) 
Ay, this looks well — thy tread is firm and even, 
Thou bear'st thyself erect, thine hand is steady- 
There's honest gratulation in thine eye : 
Here is no poison. Each proud look and gesture 
Pourtrays the noble image of a man, 
Who holds the cup of comfort to his fellow. 
Pleasure may dance in her full cup of wine, 
Health sparkles here. {Drinks.) But will the go- 
vernor 
Forgive thee too ? 

Abd. If you would trust me. 

Baym. Well. (Abdallah opens a trap door.) 

Where does that lead ? 

Abd Out on the shore. 
Those who have died here - — 

Baym. Or been murder'd ? 

Abd. Ay, their bodies this way have been carried 
out, 
And thrown at midnight in the sea. The dead 



283 

Have found a passage here, why not the living. 
If you would trust me ? 

Raym. Lead, I'll follow thee. 

(Abdallah gives him a dagger.) 
Abd. Take this, it is a better pledge than words. 
If I prove false you know to sheath it right. 
Tarry a moment here, I'll bring a light. [Exit. 

Raym. If this should be an after plot of murder, 
The first act having fail'd — yet why bring light 
To do a deed of darkness, or why arm 
My arm with vengeance if his thoughts are evil ? 

(Abdallah enters with a torch.) 
Abd. Now, are you ready ? 
Raym. Down, I'll follow thee. 

{As they descend.) 
Abd. The way is dark and narrow. 
Raym. Quick,, proceed. I will not shrink. 

[Exeunt* 



284 



ACT V. 

Scene 1st. — A Wood ; on one side the habitation of 
Raymond. 

Enter Raymond and Abdallah. 

Raym. No further, yonder is my hut : return 
To tell Gonsalvo you have done the deed, 
And with to-morrow's sun, salute me here. 
Farewell ! — at sunrise — 

Abd. I'll be here before : 

I shall not sleep for thinking that to-morrow 
Will make me free. [.Exit. 

Raym. Why what a heart must that Gonsalvo have? 
Who from thy body would erase God's image, 
And fix the weight of murder on thy soul. 
Now will I gently steal upon my love, 
And wake to wand'ring rapture all her senses. 
How, there are two? the other sleeps whilst Zoa 
Hangs in such earnest contemplation o'er her 
As she would read her dreams : and see, she weeps, 
As if in pity : 'tis not so, for now 
In scorn she brushes off the struggling tears, 
And with a frown upbraids them. 
What can this mean ? there is some horrid mischie/ 



285 

In her quick motions and disordered looks, 

I'll watch the working on't. [Enters the hut. 

Scene 2d, — The inside of the hut. 

Almanza asleep, Zoa (as listening.) 

Zoa. Now, all is still : 

Yon moon approves the deed, else in the clouds 
That float around she'd hide her conscious head : 
No hour so meet as midnight's breathless pause, 
No altar like the couch she would defile. 
Nay now perhaps, in her adulterous dreams, 
She thinks on Raymond. — I will wake her first, 
Halloo her name., that startling from her sleep 
She may confess herself, and leave no doubt 
That this is her true image. — Hoa, Almanza ! Al- 
manza, hoa ! 

Aim. Who calls ? (Starting tip.) 

Zoa. 'Tis I ; awake, 

And take such greeting as the wife of Raymond 
Should give to Raymond's friend. 

(She lifts her hatchet to strike.) 

Raym. (Holding her hand.) Woman, art mad ? 

Aim. Would she have killed me ? 

Zoa. Ay, I am not mad, 

It is the governors daughter, is it not ? 



286 



Aim. It is, indeed. 

Raym. Amazement ! 

Zoa. Nay, 'tis she, 

Your prison comforter, look not so strange, 
" It is a place well suited to her sex ;" 
And when she could not bless thee with herself, 
You had this painted likeness of her still 
To soothe the pangs of absence. 

Raym. {Snatches the picture.) What is this ? 

Zoa. The thing you gave to Telico. 

Raym. 'Tis false ; 

I never saw it, by my soul, till now. 

Zoa. You gave't him not ? 

Raym. Never. 

Aim. It is the picture which Igave to Florio. 
When he departed for the chace to-day, 
He wore it round his neck. 

Zoa. Nay, are you sure ? 

Aim. Very, for when at distance he took leave, 
He press'd it to his heart, and rais'd it thence 
To meet his lips, which bow'd to do it homage : 
Then sprung upon his steed and hurried off. 

Zoa. {After a pause.) I will not live then. 

{Snatching up the hatchet.) 

Aim. Nay, 'twas madness, all 

Your senses were disordered. 



287 

% oa . Talk not of it, 

The bare suggestion now is freezing horror. 
The perpetration— no, I will not live, 
Cover me, night, with thy obscurest hell, 
Nor let the rising of another sun 
Shine full upon my shame ; nay, let me go, 
Yet 'tis not done. There is no blood upon you, 
I feel your pulses play — your eye beams life. 
I hear you softly breathe too, — all is well : 
I did but lift my hand. 
Aim. No more of that. 

Zoa. I would weep, lady, but my burning shame 
Consumes my tears ; nay, I would not ask forgiveness, 
If that could be — but at a deed like this, 
Mercy would snatch th* uplifted sword from justice, 
And without shrinking, strike ! 

Aim. No more of this, 

You have my full forgiveness. {They embrace.) 

Zoa. Ay, but Raymond, 

What shall I say to you ? 

Raym. Why, nothing now. 

Had I the time I'd chide you, but the night 
Teams with more horrid prodigies than this. 
Come, I will lead you where a deeper wonder 
Shall swallow up the sense of what has past, 
In horrible amazement. Come. [Exeunt. 



288 



Sce?ie 5 a Wood. 

Gonsalvo and Spariiards. 

Gons. We must be near them now, yet all is still, 
Perez, you mark'd the spot? 

Perez. Yes, my lord, we are within 

A stone's throw of it. 

Gons. Hark ! who comes ? 

(Abdallah hails them from without.) 

Perez. It is the slave Abdallah. [He enters.) 

Abd. Yes, 'tis he. 

[The other Spaniards retire^ and leave 
Abdallah and Gonsalvo.) 

Gons. Well, is he dead ? 

Abd. Yes. 

Gons. Did you poison him ? 

Abd. No, stabb'd him as h» slept. 

Gons. Good ! and the body ? 

Abd. Thrown into the sea. 

Gons. There let it sink or swim : to-morrow's sun 
Lights thee to liberty. 

Now Spaniards on, th' accursed spot is near, 
Tread sofdy, where with unwash'd hands they lie* 
And faces grim with human sacrifice. 
Yet pause a momem%-should his mangled limbs— 



2S9 

My boy ! my boy ! tho' by the moon's pale light 
Gleam on mine eyes : well they shall rouse my ven- 
geance. 
Come. [Exeunt. 

(The Creeks steal from their ambush on all sides, 
and Telico and Potowmak come for- 
ward.) 
Tel. (To Potowmak.) Stabb'd in his sleep : didst 
hear ? 

Pot. Had I been deaf, those words had broke the 
spell. 

Tel. Yet 'twas foul play : this hatchet should have 
done it. 

Pot. No matter, since 'tis done : he sleeps sound 
for ever. 

Tel. Yes, we are sleeping too, these Spaniards say: 
Silent we are, and dark, but not to sleep ; — 
Couch'd in the rustling grass — but not to sleep : — 
Close ambush'd in the tree — yet not to sleep : — 
Or, if we must repose, we do not lie 
Stretch'd at full length to doze our surfeit out, 
Like dull white fools : we close our eyes, indeed, 
Yet, fearfully, our senses still keep watch, 
Quick to alarm, and start at distant perils, 
Which, broad awake, these Spaniards would not 
dream of. 

u 



290 

Now on them silent, and invisible 
Steal like the night dew. [Exeunt Creeks. 

(The Creeks return, with the Spaniards jpri sorters.) 

Tel. Bring them along. You would have caught 
us sleeping; 
Like vermin, on the roost have suck'd our blood. 
The mighty hunters are for once the spoil. 
Well, if you had surpris'd us sunk in slumber, 
What had our doom been ? 

Gons. Death ! merciful death, 

Compared with your inflictions : ye had died 
Untortured, at a blow. 

Tel. I understand ye. 

(Makes a sign to one of the Creeks, who retires.) 

Gons. What can he mean by that ? 

Tel. If we had slept, 

Ungrasp'd these tomahawks, these bows unstrung, 
Ye would have made our passing rest eternal : 
Upon death's image stampt your noble vengeance ; 
Then, o'er the dead, clapp'd your triumphant wings, 
And crow'd your mighty victory : such had been 
Your mercy, had you found us unprepared ; 
Now, witness ours. 

The Creeks enter with Fernandez and Florio. 

Gons. Alive I — Yes, 'tis my boy. 

(Goes to embrace them.) 



291 



Tel. {Stopping him.) A moment's patience, sir: 
these are our captives ; 
Fresh in complexion still, and sound in limb ; 
Look at them well ; you will not find a hair 
Of either touch'd, or a scratch on their white skins : 
You have a prisoner, sir, of ours : a brave one. 
Now burst the dungeon that our chief entombs, 
And lead him forth unalter'd. "What, you cannot. 
You've put him to the torture ? Well, no matter : 
Come bring him forth with dislocated bones ; 
If life breathes in him, all may yet be well. 
Still do you hang the head ? Then he is murder'd : 
Poison'd perhaps, or — butcher'd in his sleep ! 
Why do your haggard eyes thus cleave to the earth ; 
He is not there : you'll find him in the waters. 

Gons. {After a pause.) Merciful heav'n ! who sent 
the message ? 

Tel. I. 

Gons. What, that my son was tortur'd ? 

Tel. Yes, I sent it. 

Gons. Wherefore ? 

Tel. That Raymond's body, as thou doom'dst it, 
Might glut the ocean cannibals.- 

Gons. Thou fiend ! 

Fern. Horrible ! 

Flor. Who ever heard of such a devil ! 
u 2 



292 

Gons. Oh, Raymond ! Raymond ! 

Tel. Shall I call him for thee ? 

Raymond, awake ! 'tis thine assassin calls ; 
The noljle Spaniard who did stab thee sleeping, 
By yonder trembling victim of his power, 
Would breath back life into thy mortal wounds. 
He will not hear. Raymond, awake! 
The wat'ry shroud shake off, 
That dins about thine ears ; and, like the sun, 
Kindling anew from thy sepulchral waves, 
Spread forth reanimate. 

Enter Raymond, Zoa, and Almanza. 

Thou ? or thy spirit ? 

Raym. It is no apparition. 

Tel. Would it were. 

Gons. (To Abdallah.) Did you not tell me, 
slave 

Raym. He is no slave. 

His freedom was the price for shedding blood, 
Shall he have less for sparing it? Potowmak — 
Telico — what can you say ? 

Pot. Nothing. 

Raym. ( To Telico.) You, sir ? 

Tel. I was not born to speak at thy commands. 
Somewhat thine unexpected presence moved me, 



293 

For which, whilst living, I shall spurn myself; 
But that is past. 

Raym. Wilt live, and be my friend ? 

Tel. Never, for I can die thine enemy. 

Raym. How have I wrong'd thee ? 

Tel. Thou hast a white complexion — 
Art chieftain of the Creeks — which I would be : 
And wouldst be their first warrior — which I am. 
But words are idle. 

Gons. Let him speak in groans then. 

Tel. Curses, you mean. An Indian utter groans ! 
It is a language which my mother knew not, 
And could not teach it to her son. 
'Tis like enough that, with my parting breath, 
I may hiss curses thro' my clenched teeth : 
But groans — no, never ! thro' these closing eyes 
My spirit shall look forth with fiVd disdain ; 
Nor henceforth will I utter more than this — 
Living, I hate, and dying, will despise thee. 

[Exeunt Telico and Potowmak, with Creeks. 

Raym. Which of you is Florio ? 

Flor. I'll answer to that name till I've done some- 
thing to be asham'd of it. 

Raym. The rest are free; you, sir, must stay with 
us. 

v 3 



294- 

Flor. Pray, sir, have you taken a particular fancy 
to me? 

Raym. Know you this Indian girl ? ( Talcing Al- 
manza by the hand, and shelving her to him.) 

Flor. Know her, sir ? Yes, sir that is to say, 

I do not know her ; or, to speak more correctly, I 
know very little about her. 

Raym. She claims }'ou as her husband. 

Flor. Indeed, sir : she does me a great deal of 
honour : but there's another lady, named Donna 
Almanza, daughter to that gentleman, who has a prior 
claim upon me in that capacity ; and as neither your 
laws nor ours will suffer a gentleman to double the 
blessings of matrimony, I can't possibly indulge both 
the ladies. 

Aim. You'll contrive that very well, I dare say. 

{Aside.) 

Raym. (To Almanza.) Did he not promise to 
marry you ? 

Aim. Oh, yes, and swore great oaths. 

Flor. Nay, I did make a sort of promise ; but curse 
me if I swore : besides, we were only in jest. Come, 
come, be an honest wench, and confess we were only 
in jest. 

Aim. Oh, no, it was no jest. 



296 

Flor. Then, as I hope to be saved, 'twas a jest. 

Raym. In jest or earnest, you must wed her, sir. 

Flor. Well, well, I have no objection to marry the 
lady in jest ; but there, with your permission, the jest 
shall end. 

Raym. It is no joke. We have a custom, sir, 
And custom is our law, (which, to oppose, 
Is but to rear a bulrush 'gainst the flood) 
That any one (no matter of what nation) 
Who promises an Indian maid his love, 
Shall, as her husband, make that promise good. 

Gons. So, so, I may get rid of him, however. 

{Aside.) 

Flor. Nay, my dear sir, I knew you had certain 
laws with respect to the married ladies ; but I thought 
maids were left to govern themselves. 

Raym. (To Gonsalvo.) Then I appeal to you, 
sir ; tho' a Spaniard. You have a daughter. 

Gons. Yes. 

Raym. Suppose a case, then. 

Flor. Oh, my cursed vivacity. (Aside.) 

Raym. Suppose a smooth gallant, 
Handsome as this may be, with soft-breath'd speech, 
And other gentle practices of love, 
Stole to your daughter's heart — as you're a father, 
And jealous of the honour of your child, 

u 4 



296 

Were you in judgment sitting on this man, 
What would your judgment be ? 

Gons, 'Tis a hard question. 
If, as 'tis urg'd, and has not been denied, 
If with fair seeming honourable love 
He entertain'd her, and the .hope of marriage, 
Then, as a father, jealous of the honour 
Of my own child, in this poor Indian girl — 
But hold — her parents have consented ? 

Flor. Right, sir, a very excellent question : you 
would not, I am sure, let me marry your daughter 
without your consent. 

Raym. They have consented. 

Flor. Perhaps, sir, by this time they have chang'd 
their mind. 

Gons. Why, then, I think, 
In honour and in conscience, as by law, 
Florio is bound to make the maid his wife. 

Raym. ( Takes Almanza's hand, and leads her to 
Florio.) Come, your hand, sir. 
What, you refuse ! — Prepare the stake. 

Flor. Refuse — oh, no ! — The stake ! — That is, 
don't absolutely refuse — 

Raym. D'ye hear. {To the Creeks.) 

Flor. Not immediately 5 if you please, gentlemen. 
A word with the lady, by your leave. Madam, a§ 



297 

you are determined to make a happy man of me, 
whether I will or no, it is but candid I should give 
you a slight sketch of the joys we are likely to ex- 
perience. 

Aim. Oh, I could listen to that voice for ever. 

Ray in. Come, sir. 

Flor. Well, sir, I give — no, I don't give it, but 
there is my hand. 

(She takes Ms hand, and leads him to the 
Governor.) 

Aim. Your blessing and forgiveness, sir. 

Gons. How ! 

Aim. Your daughter, sir. 

Fern. My sister ! 

Flor. Almanza ! 

Gons. This is a trick. 

Raym. An honest one, sir. 

| You have passed sentence like a righteous judge ; 
Now, like a father, see it executed. 

Gons. Well, well, I see Fortune will have it so, 
And I consent. 

Aim, Why, Florio, still amazed ? 

Flor. Yes : by this light, or rather by this dark- 
ness, thou art she ; and for this jade's trick thou hast 
played, in forcing me to marry the woman I adore, I 
will love thee most unmercifully. 



29S 

Aim. What, you will beat me, then ? 

Flor. No; though I shall almost love thee well 
enough, I will restrain tl\e violence of my affection, 
and not beat thee. 

Aim. That is, if I shall be content with a half, or 
a quarter, or a tenth, or a 

Flor. Nay, you shall have me all. 

Aim. I don't expect that; yet I will never quarrel 
with thine inconstancy, if, when thou stealest affection 
from Almanza, thou wilt give it to Abacoa. 

Raym. Now we will see you to the boundary. 
At distance, 'twixt the Spaniards and the Creeks 
There may be friendship still, but nothing farther. 
Come, we will see you safe there. [Exeunt. 



THE END. 



TOUR'S or MINE, 

A COMIC OPERA. 



IN THREE ACTS. 



DRAMATIS PERSON^ 

Justice Fidget. 

Justice Sparrowhawke. 

Captain Constant. 

Careless, his Friend, Nephew to Justice Fidget. 

O' Blarney, an Irish Schoolmaster, and Clerk to 

both Justices. 
Sturdy, an Innkeeper and Farmer. 
Toddy, Servant to Constant. 
Servants, &c. 

Sophia, Daughter to Fidget. 
Grace, Sister to Constant. 
Susan, Maid to Sophia. 
Servants, &c. 

Scene, a Village. — Time, the Performance. 



YOUR'S or MINE. 



ACT I. 

Scene, a Village. 

Enter Toddy. 

Tod. So here I am. once more quartered in my 
own native village ; and if ever I believe a recruiting 
serjeant again, when he tells me there's no danger in 
fighting, may I be scalp't by a Cherokee Indian, or 
broiled alive by a cannibal cook. 

AIR 1st. 

I. 

I had heard of the pleasures of war and campaigning, 
And much of the honour and beauty of scars, 
So Tim Jolter and I, peace and quiet disdaining, 
Determin'd like heroes, to list for the wars. 



302 



The drum and the fife beat to arms thro' the village. 

Tim's wife was heart-broke, but I bad her not cry, 

Whilst he kiss'd off the tear as it stood in her eye ; 
Like a couple of ninnies, 
We took the king's guineas, 

And left our sweet hamlet, for plunder and pillage. 

II. 

In drilling, we soon found our torments began, 
'Twixt my shoulders and head, such a sympathy rose, 
That they never would part, so I got the rattan, 
And Tim, for his soul, could'nt turn out his toes : 
We soon curs'd the day, the drum beat thro' the vil- 
lage, 
When Tim's wife, &c. 

III. 

Spite of oatmeal and flour, my hair stood on end a 
When the battle on both sides, was set in array, 
A twenty-four pounder soon settled my friend, 
And I was found missing, the very next day. 
And now fifty drums may alarum the village, 
I want courage perhaps, yet I'll not stir a peg, 
For I don't want an arm, and I don't want a leg : 

And whilst from the misses, 

I ravish sweet kisses, 
I'll envy not heroes their plunder and pillage. 



203 



O'Blarney crosses the back of the stage. 

Tod. Sure I know that face, why O'Blar — 

O'Blar. Why Toddy, and is it your own self now ? 

Tod. Why you look at me, as if I was altered a 
little. 

O'Blar. Faith that may be without a miracle : the 
man who goes to the wars, is more likely to be altered 
than he who stays at home. 

Tod. You are right, and if I had taken your ad- 
vice. I should have staid at home too ; not that I 
minded the danger, but the noise of the great guns 
always gave me a head-ache. 

O'Blar. The heart-ach you mean, I suppose ; but 
it's nearly the same thing. 

Tod. Well, O'Blarney, are you still clerk to the 
justice ? 

O'Blar. Clerk to two justices, besides being a bit 
of a retail potatoe merchant. 

Tod. And do you keep on your school ? 

O'Blar. My school ? To be sure, when you left us, 
it was but a school, but you'll please to remember that 
now it's an academy. 

Tod. And have you plenty of scholars ? 

O'Blar. More than I can teach, more than I can 

teach ; especially since I have began to puzzle them 

with a new grammar of my own invention — in which 

you see, without bothering their tender understand- 



304 



ings with eight or nine parts of speech* I have made 
it as clear as the Liffeyj that the devil a part of speech 
is there but one, and that's the tongue which every 
man (and man, you know, includes woman of 
course) carries in his own head. — You shall just 
peep in upon me one morning, and see me teach the 
English languish in it's purity, at fourteen-pence a 
week, besides giving them a pretty strong twang of 
the Irish into the bargain. — But come, you see the 
Blackamoor's Head stands just where it did, tho' one 
of my little urchins the other day knock'd off his 
nose ; sha'nt we drink a glass or two to our old 
friendship ? 

Tod. Yes, and a bottle or two to our new acquain- 
tance. 

G'Blar. To be sure we wont — for the wind being 
south-west* I have given my little disciples a ho* 
liday. 

Tod. What, because the wind was south-west ? 

O'Blar. I'll tell you — you see there's an old 
trout at the mill-tail, I have wanted to catch for this 
month past ; I had call'd my little fellows together* to 
hear them their evening tasks, when I caught little 
Tommy Truant looking up at the weathercock in the 
church-yard. I had flogg'd him the day before, for 
having his stockings about his heels, for as I said to 



305 

him, if I catch you again with your stockings about 
your heels, your brogues shall soon follow their ex- 
ample: there he was, looking up earnestly at the 
weathercock. — You had better turn that graceless face 
of yours, upon your dirty dog's-leav'd book, my young 
master, said I ; but in less than a minute, I caught 
him looking up at the weathercock again, and then he 
look'd at me, and then I look'd at the weathercock ; 
and there it was sure enough, it stood south-west as 
it could blow. Thought I to myself, are you in that 
quarter at last, and be damn'd to you ? So I pro- 
claimed silence : — My little men, said I, you have all 
lately been very good boys ; and as it seems to be a 
fine evening for walking, said I, looking up to see 
the wind hadn't chang'd again, you may all take the 
fag-end of it for a holiday. 

Tod. Why then I'll just step to deliver a letter. 
{Feels for it.) Oh, I must have put it into the other 
pocket — why, what the devil's become of it ? 

O'Blar. What have you lost ? 

Tod. A letter from my master to his mistress — 
come, come, you have taken it out of my pocket. 

O'Blar. Not a word of it. 

Tod. What the devil's to be done ? 

O'Blar. Done — write another yourself. 

Tod. Impossible, my parents gave me an excellent 
x 



306 



education, but somehow or other, they forgot writing 
and reading. 

G'Blar. Never mind it, I'll give you one of my 
grammars, where you may learn both at the same 
time. — Don't be alarm'd, I'll write you a letter. 

Tod. Will you ? 

O'Blar. I have said it. 

Tod. But can you ? 

O'Blar. Can I ? Go back to where you dropt the 
letter, and then meet me at the Blackamoor's Head. 

Tod. Grant heaven I may find it, for if I return 
without an answer, I shall certainly be murdered. 

[Exit. 

G'Blar. (solus) Whether I can write a love-letter ? 
Faith, by his doubting that, one would almost sup- 
pose he had heard of the small misfortune that I met 
with in my own country. 

AIR 2d. 

I. 

In the town of Kilkenny, I once kept a school, 
Where I sat like a gander 'mongst ducks in a pool, 
Spare the rod, spoil the child, is a maxim quite right, 
So I whip'd them all round of a Saturday night. 
It was physick, before they were sick, to be sure, 
But you know that prevention is better than cure ; 



307 

And yoivll find it the sooner, the deeper you search, 
That the great tree of knowledge they talk of, was 

birch : 
If you'd quicken the wit, let the diet be spare, 
So faith, of starvation, they had a full share ; 
Tho' their bellies might grumble out — non quantum 

suff. 
Yet no one could say, but their backs had enough. 

II. 

Thus I taught them, ti}l told by an impudent elf, 
I had better begin, by first learning myself, 
For he swore that my impudence couldn't be small, 
To set up in a business with no stock at all ; 
My boys took the hint, and I caught an arch rogue* 
With a grin on his face, slily smoking my brogue ; 
They broke my best cane, burnt my wig to the call, 
And scribbled " O'Blarney's a dunce" on the wall. 
So I lock'd up my school room, and wrote on the door, 
" The devil may teach here, for I teach no more ; 
" And that he may know how to get in with ease, 
(i If he breaks the door open, he'll soon find the keys." 

[Exit. 



o 



508 

Scene, another pari of the Village, 
Enter Grace Constant. 
AIR 3d. 

I. 

Fair to the shepherd's anxious eye, 
Tho' storms succeed, doth glow, 

Amid* the half-relumin'd sky, 
The many-colour'd bow. 

II. 

So hope's fond dreams stiH sooth despair, 

And tho* we wake to pain, 
So warmly bright her visions are, 

We wish to sleep again. 

How sweetly custom teaches us to reap comfort 
from adversity, as the bird gathers the down -that 
warms his humble dwelling, from the thistle that 
wounds his breast. The fifteen months I have spent 
in the service of this honest man — but he comes. 

Enter Sturdy. 
Stur. Two strangers have alighted at the house. 
Gra, I wish I had been there to attend them. 



309 

Stur. Perhaps it's as well as 'tis: they are young, 
and you are handsome. I take them for a couple ©f 
London sparks ; gentlemen who have too much pride 
to marry a poor girl, yet sufficient condescension to 
ruin, and just spirit enough to desert her. 

Gra. I hope you are mistaken, sir. 

Stur. I hope so too. I have been so often deceived 
in my good opinion of mankind, that I'm always 
heartily glad to be honestly ashamed of a bad one ; 
but come, we'll talk more of them as. we go along. 

[Exeunt* 

Scene, a Room in Justice Fidget's House. 

Enter Sophia and Susan. 

Sus. Well, madam, and how did you and the old 
gentleman settle the aifair at last ? 

Soph. I have agreed to marry the lawyer, in case 
upon further acquaintance he should like me. 

Sus. And how will you prevent his liking you? 

Soph. I have a scheme for that, which I have been 
for somo time putting in execution ; but run and see 
who the fellow is, that you say is lurking about the 
house. 

Sus. Yes, ma'am, he wants to speak with some of 
: xS 



310 



the female part of it, I'll -be sworn; so I'll just give 
him a decent opportunity, and be back immediately. 

[Exit Susan. 
Soph, If it should be a messenger from Constant ; 
yet I dare not expect it. The pangs of disappoint- 
ment are too severe a penance for the indulgence of 
hope. 

AIR 4th. 
The flow'r enamour'd of the sun, 
At his departure hangs her head and weeps, 
And shrouds her sweetness up, and keeps 
Sad vigils, like a cloister'd nun, 
Till his reviving ray appears, 
Waking her beauty as he dries her tears. 

Enter Susan. 

Sus. I knew I was right, madam. 

Soph. What have you got there ? 

Sus. Read madam, read; 'tis from Captain Constant. 

Soph. Who told you so ? 

Sus. The man who brought it. 

Soph. And what have you done with him? 

(Opens the letter^ and reads.) 

Sus.Why, madam, I was some time in doubt whether 
I should put him into the pantry to assist Robin in 
scrubbing the plate, or lock him up with old Deborah 



311 



to make conserves ; but concluding, that like the rest 
of the male creatures, he must have a natural par- 
tiality for our sex Bless me, what's the matter ? 

why you look as melancholy as if you had been read- 
ing a tragedy. I hope the captain is'nt false- 
hearted ? 

Soph. Let me see the messenger. 

Sus. Yes, madam ; he's certainly false-hearted after 
all! 

Soph. What am I to think of this ? 'tis not Con- 
stant's hand, and the contents are absolute nonsense ; 
yet this is about the time I expected him. 

Enter Susan and Toddy. 

Sus. This, sir, is my lady. 

Soph. Leave me, Susan. 

Sus. What, with a strange man, madam ? I can't 
think of that, 

Soph. Well, well, shut the door then. You brought 
this letter from Captain Constant? 

Tod. Yes, madam. 

Soph. Pray is it his writing, sir ? 

Tod. His writing? you know his writing, ma'am, I 
presume ? 

Soph. Perfectly. 

Tod. Why then, madam, honestly to confess the 
x4 



3t£ 

truth, the' he swore me to secrecy, it is not his writ-* 
ing. My master, madam, owing to a trifling accident — 

Soph. Accident ! oh, heav'ns ! 

Tod. The mere fortune of war : the loss of an arm, 
upon such occasions— 

Soph. Loss of an arm ? 

Tod. Very true, madam : in following the enemy too 
vigorously, a masqued battery opened upon us, and at 
the first discharge my master lost his right arm ; but 
take comfort, madam ; don't be distress'd; he has got 
as handsome a wooden one* 

Soph. A wooden one? 

Tod. Yes_, madain, and he moves it so naturally, 
that you'd hardly know it from flesh and blood. I 
was, as I said before, sworn to secrecy, but there's 
an openness in my disposition : I have my faults, but 
I never could tell a lie in my life. 

Soph. But his intellects, sir ? 

Tod. Madam! 

Sus. What does the man gape at? Is your master 
in his right senses ? 

Tod. An excellent hint. (Aside J 

Soph. You understand me, is he perfectly rational ? 

Tod. He's in love, madam* 

Soph. But is he in his perfect senses ? 

Tod. As much so as most gentlemen in that imfor- 



313 

tunate situation : for an instance, he call'd'me to him 
this morning, and looking as I thought rather wildly, 
Toddy, says he, sit down and write. He then dictated 
to me, verbatim, the letter I brought ; then suddenly 
starting up, and hitting his forehead with his wooden 
hand, at the same time catching me by the throat 
with the other, False, cruel, perjur'd fair ! says he : 
you shall now pay dear for all your treachery. With 
that, madam, he squeez'd me by the throat, till he 
almost stopt my windpipe, when, finding by the 
hoarseness of my voice and the roughness of my chin, 
I was not a false perjur'd fair, he begged my pardon, 
I must own, in a very gentlemanly manner, and bade 
me hasten here with the letter. 

Soph. Poor Constant ! 

Sus. Poor gentleman ! 

Tod. Poor gentleman indeed. 

Sop. Well, sir, if you'll contrive to make your- 
self comfortable in the kitchen, I'll write an answer. 

Tod. The kitchen ! lord, madam, I'm a man of so 
humble a spirit, I should'nt have been offended if you 
had mentioned the cellar. 

Soph. (To Susan.) You'll see him taken care of. 
(Exeunt Susan and Toddy.) Poor Constant ! and 
is it thus, after so long a absence, we are to meet. 



314 

'Twould be better to fe^ 1 the pangs of expectation 
stilly than to see thee thus return'd. [Exit. 

Scene, a Room in an Inn. 

Constant and Careless sitting at a table. 
AIR 5th.. (Duet.) 

I. 

Another glass, 'tis friendship's due, 
Here's to all friends the world around; 
But chiefly him, whose ardent soul 
Can glow beneath the northern pole, 
As o'er the salt wave, homeward bounds 
He wafts an anxious thought of you. 

II. 

Another still, and then we'll part : 
Here's to the girl thou lov'st most dear^ 
"Who, when no chiding tongue is nigh, 
Breathing for thee the midnight sigh, 
Her glowing cheek wet with a tear, 
In fancy folds thee to her heart. 

Car el. So this scoundrel attorney is in quiet pos- 
session of your estate ? 

Cons. Even so; as my father declined in bodily 



315 



health, the soundness of his mind also became im- 
paired; and he was worked upon by this ras- 
cal, who was then his steward, to disinherit my 
sister, and leave him the estate. The will was con- 
tested^ but in vain ; they could bring no proof that 
would reach him ; and the bells you have heard ring- 
ing so merrily, are celebrating the anniversary of his 
victory. This I learnt from our host, who it seems 
is also a bit of a farmer. The best of the joke is, that 
thinking the estate securely his, my worthy steward 
has laid out some thousand pounds in improving it. 

Caret. Excellent ! Have you pick'd up any tid- 
ings of your sister ? 

Cons. Not a syllable ; but I have learnt' — 

Car el. Well? 

Cons. That Sophia, forgetting our long plighted 
and often renewed vows, has consented to marry this 
very wretch. 

CareL What, the attorney ? 

Cons. Sparrowhawke himself; but who comes here? 

(Enter a hoy.) 

Boy. Is either of you Mr. Constant ? 

Cons. That's my name, my lad. 

Boy. Then here's a letter for you; I brought it 
from a gentleman at the Blackamoor's Head — One 
Mr. Toddy, I think : he told me not to wait for an 
answer, so your servant. [Exit. 



316 



Cons. 'Tis her dear perfidious hand. 
Carel. This, no doubt, will explain matters. 
Cons. (Reads.) " Sophia condoles with Constant 
on his misfortunes. ,, Misfortunes ! " The loss of his 
arm she could have borne, but his other calamity has 
cut her to the quick." Loss of an arm ! other ca- 
lamity ! Do you understand this ? 

Carel. Not a word; but read on, for a woman 
often delights in perplexing a man, for the pleasure 
of bringing him to a right understanding at last. 

Cons. " She returns him his strange epistle, and 
will be happy to see him the first moment he feels 
himself equal to an interview :" why, what the devil is 
this ? Read the letter ; there it is ; read it, and see if 
you can find any thing strange in it. 

Carel. (Reads.) e: Divinest of craters." 

Cons. Psha ! this is absurd. 

Carel. Faith, it's absurd enough. " Divinest of 
craters." 

Cons. Come, come, I'm not in a jesting humour. 

Carel. Nor I ; therefore as you wrote the letter, you 
had better read it yourself. 

Cons. Why this isn't the letter I sent her ? 

Carel. Very likely, but it's the one she sent you. 

Cons. (Reads.) " The thorns you have planted in 
my bosom have already grown to a quickset hedge. 
*?air virgin, be not guilty of manslaughter ; but as 



317 

thou aut the most perfect, preterperfect, and preterplu- 
perfect of women, look on me with an eye of tender- 
ness, lest I throw myself into the next horse pond, 
to prove how much I am over head and years in love. 
I look upon thee — 
" Yea, as a modest inoffensive ass, 
" Condemn'd, poor soul, to feed where once was grass, 
" With outstretch'd neck and ears the paling over, 
" Looks wistfully upon a field of clover." 

Car el. 'Tis some mistake. 

Cons. Mistake ! what mistake ? be it as it may, 
I'm determined to have an interview, for tjie tortures 
of suspence are insupportable. 

AIR 6th. (Duet.) 
Delusive hope, once more, adieu 1 
Thy pictures of delight, 
Melt from my disenchanted view; 
I wake, and all is night. 
Thou, like the solitary ray 
That cheers the dying captive's gloom, 
Dost glitter only to betray, 
That flushes his wan cheek and passes by, 
Quick glancing on his closing eye, 
To gild the horrors of his tomb. 

[Exit*. 



318 



Caret. Well, surely to plague or to please a maii^ 
there has never been any thing invented like a woman, 
What shall I do with myself till Constant returns ? 
Egad 'tis a fine morning, my landlord will lend me a 
dog and a gun, and I'll e'en take a sauntering sur- 
vey of my friend's estate; but first, I have a strange 
curiosity to know something of this lovely girl that 
waits upon us : she appears the child of misfortune, 
and I pity her from my soul. 

AIR 7th. 

I. 

Oh ! would 'twere my lot to bring back to her bosom 
The bliss that is sweeten'd from sorrow's alloy, 

To watch on her pale cheek the roses re-blossom, 
And waken the string that revibrates to joy. 

II. 

The heart long weigh'd down beats with keenest 
delight, 
As it springs from the pressure of care, 
And the eye with the fulness of rapture is bright, 
When its spirit starts forth in a tear. 

lExiU 



3i9 

ACT II. 

Scene, a Room at Lawyer Sparrowhawke's. 

Enter Careless, as from shooting, followed by a 
Servant* 

Serv. If you'll favour me with your name, sir, I'll 
inform my master immediately. 

Caret. My name — psha, never mind my name : a 
stranger wishes to see him. [Exit Servant,) How 
will this rascal be astonished when the light breaks in 
upon him ! Perhaps he'll be the only steward on 
record who ruined himself in improving his master's 
property. 

Enter Sparrowhawke. 

Sparr, Sir, your most obedient. 

Caret. Sir, your very humble servant. 

Sparr. Have you any business with me ? 

Caret. Not much. You've a very fine house, here, 
Mr. Sparrowhawke. 

Sparr, Yes, I built the two wings to it myself; and, 
egad, as I sometimes whimsically say, they have flown 
away with my fortune. 

Car el. A very pretty estate round about you. 

Sparr. The completest, I believe, in the county. 



320 



Caret. They say you have laid out upwards of ten 
thousand pounds upon it. 

Sparr. A strange fellow. (Aside.) 

Corel, I wish you'd take a little more care of the 
game. 

Sparr. Indeed ! 

Carel. For as I mean soon to take up my quarters 
here, for a month or six weeks at least 

Sparr. The devil you do ! 

Carel. Perhaps longer. 

Sparr. You mean to stay till you're invited, I pre- 
sume? 

Carel. Oh, no; I've a general invitation already. 

Sparr. All the world may have invited you, but I'm 
sure I never did. 

Carel. I beg pardon ; you, I believe, are the owner 
of this princely mansion ? 

Sparr. I am. 

Carel. You took it, I understand, under the will of 
the late Mr. Constant. 

Sparr. Right. 

Carel. It was entailed, I believe, upon a son of his, 
who died abroad ? 

Sparr. In the East Indies. 

Carel. You may, perhaps, be able to tell me what's 
become of his daughter ? 



S21 



Sparr. No, I know nothing about her. 
Car el. You were a lucky man, Mr. Sparrow- 
hawke. 

Sparr. Very fortunate, indeed ! 

Car el, To be preferred before an only daughter. 

Sparr. Yes ; but my services to the family — 

Car el. They must have been great, no doubt. 

Sparr. Greater than you have any idea of. 

Carel. Yes, and they will be greater than you have 
any idea of yourself. 

Sparr. What does he mean ? Sir, this is very idle 
talking, I must insist upon knowing what your business 
is with me. 

Carel. My business ? 

Sparr. Yes, sir, your business ? 

Carel. My business was to rest myself: and now, 
having done my business, I rise to take my leave. 
Mr. Sparrowhawke, your servant. I leave you, at 
present, in quiet possession of your noble mansion : 
w|ien next we meet, you will know which of us has 
the best title to inhabit it. [Exit. 

Sparr. Which of us the best right ? a most extra- 
ordinary fellow. Robert. 

Enter Robert. 
Rob, Sir. 

Sparr. Does any body know that person ? 

Y 



322 



Rob. None of us, sir. 

Sjparr. Very well, no matter : if any body should 
inquire for me, I am gone to Mr. Justice Fidget's. 

[Exeunt. 
Scenes Justice Fidget's. 

Enter Constant and Susan. 

Sus. Hush; hush, Mr. Constant ; for heaven's sake 
how did you get in ? 

Cons. No matter ; where's Sophia ? 

Sus. You've put me into such a fluster. 

Cons. Hark ! 

Sus. My master, as I live ; and coming this way 
too : here's a pretty piece of work. 

Cons. What can you do with me ? 

Sus. Do with you ? Can you leap out of a two pair 
of stairs window ? 

Cons. 'Sdeath ! 

Sus. Not mad enough for that. (Aside.) Here, 
step into this closet, and keep quiet. (Goes into the 
closet.) I hadn't time to examine his arm, but he looks 
very wild about the eyes. [Exit. 

Enter Justice Fidget and Sparrowhawke. 

Just, F. Mercy on us ! the fellow had certainly an 
evil design. 
Sparr. I don't know what to think. 



823 

Just. F. I do ; he's a house-breaker. We shall all 
have our throats cut before morning. He'll pay me 
the next visit ; but I'll be prepared for him — I'll cer- 
tainly be prepared for him. 

Sparr. Why, what the devil ails you ? An impu- 
dent half-witted fellow pays me a strange visit, and 
you're as much frightened as if the French were 
landed. 

Just. F. French — you are right — I did'nt think 
of that ; he's a spy ; he went to take an inventory of 
your effects : what became of him — which way went 
he? — when — how— where — why 

Sparr. Zounds! I've no patience with you. Where's 
your daughter ? 

Just. F. I'll send her ; I'll go and send her ; I'll — 
don't you think he look'cl like a spy ? 

Sparr. Where's your daughter ? 

Just. F. I'll go and send her ; and do now, when 
she comes_, don't stand shilly shally, make the most of 
your time — do make the most of your time. 
Sparr. Let me alone. 

Just. F. You know I shall be in an agitation till the 
affair is settled. Press her home; now do press her 
home; they're all alike^ they only take a little 
pressing. . 

Y 2 



824, 



Sparr. I beg your pardon, some of them take a great 
deal. 

Just. F. Well, well, I'll go and send her — I'll go 
and send her ; and do make the most of your time. 
Mercy on us, I shan't sleep till this fellow's taken. 

[Aside, and Exit. 

Sparr, (solus>) My friend Fidget is like the magnetic 
needle, he never does any thing but tremble. His 
daughter's a fine girl though : something mysterious 
about her, too : she has an uncommon aversion to all 
kinds of exercise. Ask her to ride, riding doesn't 
agree with her; to dance — she abhors dancing. I 
begin to suspect she has clumsy legs, for now I recol- 
lect, I could never prevail upon her to let me help her 
over a style : then she wears her petticoats at least six 
inches longer than the fashion : something wrong, I'm 
afraid. But she comes. 

Enter Sophia. 

Soph. I wait on you, sir, in obedience to my father's 
commands. 

Sparr. And why not, loveliest of women, in obe- 
dience to your own wishes? Your father has* no doubt, 
informed you of my proposals ; and may I hope that, 
forgetting your former passion 

Soph. I will be sincere, sir : that I once loved Mr. 



825 



Constant 'twould bo uncandid to deny ; but if you 
knew how he treated me 

Sparr. Bad enough, I dare say ; he almost broke 
his father's heart. The old gentleman would have 
cut him off from the entail of the estate, if he could ; 
but de mortuis, you know — we won't disturb the ashes 
of the dead. And may I then presume 

Soph. Oh, sir, pardon my confusion, whilst I confess, 
the gallantry of your air and manner 

Sparr. Something smart about me, certainly. 

{Aside.} 

Soph. The generosity of your proposals 

Sparr. A thousand a year jointure, and an hand- 
some equipage. 

Soph. Have stolen so imperceptibly upon my 
heart 

Sparr. Speak on, thou enchantress ! The wax is 
warm, and now's the time to fix the impression. 

(Aside.) 

Soph. That it owns you for its lawful sovereign. 

Sparr. I shall expire with rapture. 

Soph. Oh, sir, there begins my misery. 

Sparr. The devil it does ! 

Soph* I shall never be able to reveal it : yet how 
can I deceive one who has acted so noble a part ? 

Sparr. What means- my angel ? 
y3 



3Z6 

Soph. .Nay, sir, call me. not angel. 

Sparr. Not an angel ? Isn't every thing about you 
heavenly ? Your eyes, constellations ! Your lips, 
dropping manna ! And your whole shape formed and 
turned by the Graces and the Loves ! I should like 
to see her legs though. [Aside.) 

Soph. Oh, no, sir ; for -*- how shall I reveal it — I 
never can reveal it — I shall die with confusion. 

Sparr. And I with suspence. 

Soph. Then you must know, sir 1 shall never 

be able to tell it, if you look me in the face. 

Sparr. Well, you'll excuse me for turning my back 
upon you. ( Tunis his chair round. ) 

Soph, Certainly. 

Sparr. Now then, if you please. 

Soph. You know the pear tree, sir, at the bottom 
of our garden ? 

Sparr. Very well. 

Soph. There it happened. 

Sparr. What happened ? 

Soph. One day I climb'd it, to get some of the 
green fruit, but happening to reach too far, I fell 
down, and broke my right leg. 

Sparr. So, so : a surgeon was called in of course ? 

Soph. Yes, sir, for amputation became necessary. 

Sparr. What, was it cut off? 



327 

Soph. Yes, sir, and I had another made of cork. 

Sparr. 'Sdeath and the devil ! 

Soph. Thinking you might find it out if we were 
married 

Sparr. Most probably. 

Soph. I thought it best to reveal it at once. And 
now, sir, let me entreat you, by the affection you bear 
me, to conceal your knowledge of this event from my 
father, whilst I retire to recover from my confusion. 

{Exit. 

Sparr. [solus.) A cork leg ! So this is the mystery 
of the long petticoats. Any thing else might have 
been overlooked, but I never heard of a man's marry- 
ing a woman with a cork leg ; there's no precedent 
for it, and I never do any thing without a precedent. 
Though I am but a limb of the law myself, I must 
have a wife complete in all her branches. Here 
comes that old rogue her father; I don't wonder he 
was in such a hurry for the match. I'll banter him. 

Enter the Justice. 

Just. F. Well, shall I give you joy — shall I give 
you joy ? Have you struck her P 

Sparr. Struck her — • yes, and she has struck me 
too? 

Just.F. What, with- admiration? 
y 4 



328 



Sparr. With perfect wonder ! Do you know, 
friend Fidget, it may be fancy, perhaps ; for we lovers 
are apt to be whimsical ; but your daughter appeared 
to me higher on one side than the other. 

Just.F. What? 

Sparr. I thought, when she left me, she waddled 
aWay like a lame duck out of the alley. 

Just. F. A lame duck ! Why, then, you're a goose 
for thinking so. Nature never form'd a more exact 
symmetry. She is, as my wife used to say, a 
perfect model of the Venus — what dy'e call her 
there. 

Sparr. Why, she does in some respects resemble a 
statue. 

Just. F. A statue ! Oh, you think the girl hasn ? t 
life enough ? 

Sparr. Just so. What an impudent rascal it 
is! 

Just. F. A little more animation, you think, would 
become her ? 

Sparr. I do, upon my soul. 

Just.F. Maiden coyness — ^rnere maiden coyness. 
Marry her, only marry her, and you'll find her flesh 
and blood all over, I warrant. 

Sparr. Indeed ! What, sound wind and limb, 
eh? 



af9 

Just* F. Perfectly. 

Sparr. To be free with you, I doubt it. 

Just. F. The devil you do ! 

Sparr. I think there's here and there a limb that 
would require a touch of the Promethean torch. But 

to be serious, for I find you won't take a hint what 

mark of stupidity do you see about me, to lead you to 
.suppose I shall be bamboozled into this marriage ? 

Just. F. Bamboozled ! what d'ye mean ? 

Sparr. Not to marry a woman who climbs pear 
trees. 

Just. F. Pear trees ! How — when — where ? 

Sparr. You really don't understand me ? 

Just. F. Not a syllable. 

Sparr. Why, then, as there's a private reason why 
I can't marry your daughter, take my advice, ano^ 
make the best of the matter, by giving her to the cork- 
cutter. 

Just. F. The cork-cutter ! Mercy on me, what 
can he mean ? 

AIR 8th. 

Sparr. I could marry a witch, if, like Midas of old, 
The first time I touch'd her, she'd turn into gold; 
For tho' she were homely, 'tis odds but she'd be 
To Venus as like, as Adonis to me. 



330 

II. 

Whatever her age, for content there is scope : 
If young she gives rapture, if old she gives hope : 
And her soft roguish glances, for current shall pass, 
Tho' I know one at least of her sparklers is glass. 

III. 

Tho' the lily ne'er bloom'd on her cheek, and the rose, 
Finds its only delight on the tip of her nose ; 
Yet I'd wed the dear creature, and pocket her pelf, 
But a leg made of cork — is the devil itself. [Exit. 

Just. F. (solus) Climbing pear trees ! leg made of 
cork ! — mad, certainly mad ; mad as a march hare, 
or a poet in love. [Exit. 

Enter Constant from the Closet. 

Cons. Here's a discovery ! she never even hinted at 
this accident in any of her letters to me ; but no 
matter, her treachery is evident, and it is my duty to 
forget her. 



331 



AIR 9th. 

'Tis fixt ; I disdain 

Of my fate to complain, 

Tho' the trial I prove is severe ; 

'Tis better to know. 

The full measure of woe, 

Than to live on the rack of despair : 

Come, pride bring me back my soft hours of rest, 
Whilst I blush for the pangs I endure ; 
Oblivion, erase her false form from my breast, 
And scorn and contempt be my cure. [Exit. 

Scene, the Village. 
Enter Careless 'with his gun, he sings the following 

AIR 10th. 

When smoke up wreaths from humble cots, 

And milkmaids fill their pails, 
And nature's dewy robe of green, 

The breath of morn exhales : 
When o'er the mist emerging hill, 

The rosy sunbeams play, 
And twinkle in the lucid drops, 

Which gem the hawthorn spray : 



332 

Th' impatient pointers we unbind, 
Eager and panting from their den, 
O r er stubble-field, and heath and fen, 
They sweep the dew and snuff the wind. 
See Nero draw upon the game, 

With fearful step and slow, 
And Sancho, jealous of his fame, 

His speed at once command. 
To ho! To ho! To ho ! 
Now fixt as death, they stand : 
On whirring wings 
The cpvey springs, 
The leaden volley flies, 
And one decreed, 
By fate to breed, 
Flutters in air, and dies. 

Enter Grace. 

Gra. Oh, sir, is it you ? I've been looking for you 
all over the village. 

Car eh Indeed — is there any thing I can do for you ? 

Gra. Yes sir, there is a business, which if I could 
take so great a liberty with a stranger, 

Car el. Nay then, speak boldly; for the greatest 
liberty you can take with me, is to make me a 
stranger. 



333 



Gra. The favour I wish you to confer on me, is to 
protect from oppression the good old man your host. 

Carel. Who is his oppressor ? 

Gra. By protecting me, he has incurred the dis- 
pleasure of the rich and powerful ; tho' an industrious 
man, he is somewhat behind in his rent; and his 
unfeeling landlord has threatened to put the law in 
force against him. Here is a picture, 'tis the faithful 
resemblance of a decased mother ; the diamonds are 
of some value ; take it, and if by disposing of it in 
any way -— 

Carel. By heavens, it must not be! dispose of it did 
you say ? I'll be its faithful guardian till the danger 
is over. Go back to the old gentleman, and tell him 
that by entertaining a couple of strangers, he has done 
a good turn for himself. Rather than he shall come to 
harm, I'll pay the money. 

Gra. Oh, sir, this generosity — 

Carel. Nay, no thanks. 

Gra. Indeed I know not how to thank you; and yet — 

AIR 11th. 

Nay gentle stranger do not blame 

My gratitude sincere, 
Accept for thanks what words would shame, 

The language of a tear; 



884r 

The pow'r I want, yet have the will, 

Such kindness to repay, 
For tho' my tongue may falter still, 

My heart will something say. [Exit. 

Caret, (solus) On my soul, she's a charming girl, 
and there must be something in her history. (Enter 
Constant.) Well, what success ? 

Cons. Nay, I should ask you that — but I've a 
story to tell thee, which would burst thy sides with 
laughter, tho' thou wert a disciple of the crying phi- 
losopher. . ......... 

Caret. And Fve a story to tell you, which as it re- 
spects the unfortunate, whom all should respect, shall 
have the preference. 

Cons. Well ? 

Care. I have been talking here to our pretty bar- 
maid* ... , 

Cons. Very closely it appeared - — 

Caret. And have learnt from her, that our host is 
in danger of having his goods seized to pay his rent. 
This she told me with difficulty, for her tears flowed 
faster than her words, and taking from her pocket 
this picture. {Gives the picture to Constant, who 
appears agitated.) 

Cons. Well ! 



335 

Cai el. She told me, it was the portrait of her 
mother. 

Cons. Of her mother, did she say ? 

Card. Yes, of her mother, and a very comely old 
woman she is. 

Cons. Then it must be so. [Aside.) 

Car el. She bid me dispose of it to save the old man. 

Cons. But you wont ? 

Caret. D'ye think I'm such a heathen as to part 
mother and daughter ? No, no, I bade her wipe the 
tears from her cheek, and promised to pay the money 
myself. 

Cons. What's the amount ? 

Caret. That indeed I forgot to inquire. 

Cons. Will you never learn to think ? 

Car el. Never, I'm afraid— -whilst I can feel. Look'e, 
Constant, I can reason as well as any man. When mis- 
fortune does not look me in the face, I can march up 
slow time to the mouth of a cannon without shrinking ; 
but when I see a tear on the cheek of a woman, it un- 
mans me, and gives such an electrical shock to my 
reason, that humanity picks my pocket, before justice 
can fix her scales, or prudence put on her spectacles. 
I must be gone, yon'll find me at our head-quarters. 

{Exit. 
Cons, (solus) 'Tis evident this girl is my sister, and 



336 



nothing remains, but that I should assert my. title, 
and claim my inheritance, which my long absence 
has rendered doubly dear ; for tho' the enterprizing 
spirit of youth led me far from my native land, my 
heart was still at home. 

AIR 12th. 

From the green waving corn, 

The lark spreads his wings. 

And hails, as he sings, 

The fresh glow of the morn. 
With pinions replenish'd, he hovers on high, 
And so far sends his song from the blue-vaulted sky, 
You would think the shrill note, as he soars from 

your view, 
To his dear native earth, bad for ever, adieu ! 
But his eye is still fixt, where his wing shall repose ; 

And tho' heaven-ward his flight, 

He upholds with delight, 
Yet with rapture he darts to the spot whence he rose. 

[Exit. 

Scene, a Room in the Inn. 

Enter Stvrvy followed by Sparrowhawke. 

Sparr. You refuse to discharge the girl ? 
Stur. Positively. 



$87 

Sparr. Then the law must take its course. 

Stur. Let it. If I can save myself only by the sacri? 
flee of an innocent girl, the law must take its course ; 
for curs'd be he who, to lighten his own shoulders, 
would add the weight of a feather to the heavy-laden 
daughter of affliction. 

AIR 13th. 

I. 

Honour is the poor man's dower., 
Peace and sweet content his lot, 
Wealth awaits the sons of power. 
Him the lowly shelter'd cot. 

II. 

Yet humbly blest, the son of toil, 
From nature's bounty may inherit, 
As warm a heart, as high a spirit. 
As the proud owner of the soil. 

Sparr. Very well, if that's the case I have done, 
you may walk in, Mr. Claw, (Enter a bailiff.) There's 
your prisoner. 

Stur. No violence, I submit. 

Enter Careless and Grace. 

Caret, So, so, you are at it already, gentlemen 

z 



338 



Sparr. This fellow again. [Aside,) Yes, we are, 
pray have you any objection ? 

Caret. What's the business ? 

Sparr. This old fellow owes me money, which not 
being able to pay, I have arrested him. 

Car el. What, arrest a man that is not able to pay ? 

Sparr. I have. 

Caret. Why then you have mortgaged your soul 
to the devil, without reserving the equity of redemp- 
tion. 

Sparr. Indeed ! and pray by what authority do you 
interfere in the business ? 

Caret. By that authority which nature has implant- 
ed here, and which in the case of an oppressed fellow- 
creature, may sometimes venture to be both judge and 

Sparr. Umph ! that's a sort of practice I don't 
understand. 

Caret. Can nothing move you ? 

Sparr. Yes, the old stratagem, payment of debt 
and costs. — Mr. Claw, do your duty. 

Caret. Stand off, myrmidon ; I'll pay the money. 

Sparr. Why, you see, if you'll pay the money — 

Caret. No words, sir. [Throws down a purse.) 
Take it up : what you won't take it up ? (Sparrow- 
hawke takes up the purse.) Pay yourself out of that, 



339 

and send me the change immediately ; or by all the 
powers of fustigation, I'll mistake you for a skin of 
parchment, and drum upon you till I have awakened 
your conscience. 

Sparr. Egad, then you'll drum some time. [Aside.) 
Come along, Claw. 

Car el. And be sure you send the change ? 

Svarr. That I will, by a couple of constables. 

{Exeunt Sparrowhawke and Bailiff. 

Shi7\ I thank you, sir. 1 cannot say how much ; 
but I thank you. 

Carel. Why, then, say nothing about it. Come, 
come, cheer up my old gentleman; cheer up my 
drooping blossom. We are all in our turns the 
children of sorrow. Life is but an April day. 

AIR 14th. (Trio.) 

We pilgrims who travel thro' life's chequer'd day, 
Like the blossom of April, but bloom to decay ; 
A cloud and a sun-beam wind up its short span, 
So a smile and a tear make the journey of man. 

{Exeunt. 



z c 2 



340 

ACT III. 

Scene, a Room in Sparrowhawke's House. 

Enter Sparrowhawke. 

Sparr. I'm ruin'd, I'm undone, I'm annihilated; 
all my improvements too. Let me read the letter 
again. {Reads.) " My dear Sophia." Sophia ! " that 
must be Fidget's daughter," they had a liking for 
each other before he went abroad. (i I take the first 
opportunity of announcing to you my arrival in my 
native village. Contrive to meet me this evening 
at eight j in the Elm Grove, near the Church -yard. 
Your's impatiently till then, Edward Constant." That 
must be he no doubt that paid me a visit this morn- 
ing, and that I met again just now at old Sturdy's : 
swearing a robbery against him will be a bold stroke, 
but the game is desperate. Our being left alone 
together will give colour to the charge, which if I 
can once fix upon him, I may make my own terms. 
I must take care that this letter reaches Fidget's 
daughter in time for her to attend the interview. Oh, 
fortune ! fortune ! help me at this lift, and I'll pull 
down my Chinese pagoda, and build thee a temple 
9 



341 

on the spot. {Enter O' Blarney with pen, i?ik, mid 
paper,) 

O'Blar. Here are the implements. 

Sparr. Well, well ! sit down, and take his descrip- 
tion. 

O'Blar. That I will, grammatically; it shall agree 
with him, in case, gender, and number. 

Sparr. Write : a dark well-looking man. 

O'Blar. You mean to say, a handsome brunette. 

Sparr. Psha ! write as I tell you. 

O'Blar. A dark well-looking man. ( Writes*) 

Sparr. With a hazle eye. 

O'Blar. What colour was the other ? 

Spi^rr. Psha ! write as I tell you. Have you got 
his eyes ? 

O'Blar. Both of them : what age shall I put upon 
him ? 

Sparr. Let me see — about seventeen when he went 
abroad, seventeen and five (Aside.) — say about two 
and twenty. 

O'Blar. About two and twenty. 

Sparr. Had on a blue coat. 

O'Blar. Second cloth or superfine ?- 

Sparr. No matter, no matter. 

O'Blar. No matter, whether second cloth or super- 
fine. 



3^2 



Sparr. White waistcoat, leather breeches and boots. 

O'Blar. There ; now I think we have him complete. 

Sparr. A reward of one hundred pounds ? 

O'Blar. One hundred pounds ? It's impossible he 
can escape. 

Sparr. Print a hundred* and disperse them all over 
the country. 

O'Blar. It shall circulate like my grammar ; I'll 
give one to every body I meet. 

Sparr. Raise the whole village in a posse comita- 
tus, and bring him dead or alive (for if he makes any 
resistance, you'll be justified in shooting him) to Mr. 
Justice Fidget's. [Exit. 

O'Blar. {solus) Let me alone, I'm an old bird 
catcher : do you think I don't know how to put salt 
upon his tail. Raise the whole village in a posse comi- 
tatus ! not a bit of it — you shall find, when there's 
a hundred pounds in the wind, I'm a posse comitatus 
myself. 

AIR 15th. 

A neat hundred pounds, what shall I do with it ? 
Marry a wife, and she'll soon help me thro' with it. 

I'll keep a fat pig, 

And a dog and a cat, 

Mount a new wig, 

And* I think, a new hat : 



313 



Buy a snug piece of ground, 
Just the size of the pound, 
Where potatoes shall multiply all the year round : 
And since Dr. O' Blarney's genteeler, you see, 
Than plain Mr. O' Blarney, I'll take a degree, 

Perhaps two or three; 
For the name of a man, must for letters prevail, 
When he wears half the alphabet pinn'd to his tail. 
I'll import my own snuff, for snuff-taking, I'm told, 
Is exceeding polite^ tho' 'tis blackguard — but hold ! 
An't I counting my chickens a little too soon ? 
For e'er they are hatch'd, 
This same rogue must be catch'd, 
So whilst at his heels, 
I dance Irish reels^ 
May the devil take the hindmost, this fine afternoon. 

[Exit. 



Scene, in the Village. 

Enter Constant and Careless. 

Cons. And you really are in love with the girl ? 
Corel. Is she not a charming creature ? 
Cons. She is a pretty woman in distress •, and that, 
to a man who can relieve \t } is of all human objects 
z 4 



»44 



the most interesting — but consider the meanness of 
her birth. 

Carel. Her conduct belies it — besides, the picture. 
However, I'm determined to inquire. 

Cons. You may save yourself the trouble. 

Carel. How ? 

Cons. I have ascertained the point myself, 

Carel. You ? 

Cons. Nay, don't be jealous. 

Carel. Well. 

Cons. Her family is respectable. 

Carel. Respectable ? 

Cons. Ay, respectable ; it would'nt become me to 
say more — she has friends who must be consulted* 

Carel. Friends ? 

Cons. I mean relation^. 

Carel. Ay> that's quite another thing — you may 
find twenty that are allied to her by blood, to one 
that is akin to her misfortunes. 

Cons. Fortune she has none* 

Carel. So much the better. 

Cons. So much the better ! come^ come, you shall 
never marry her without one. 

Carel. Shan't marry her ? 

Cons. Positively shan't, for I have too great a regard 
for my sister's happiness. 



Bid 

Car el. Your sister? 

Cons. 'Tis even so. 

Carel. Are you in earnest ? 

Co?is. 'Tis she, by heaven ! 

Carel. Why, then/ your sister is a charming girl 5 
and what think you of me for a brother-in-law ? 

Const. If my sister thinks but half as well of you, 
I shall be most proud of the relationship. 

Carel. And if she does not think well of me, the 
relationship may go to the devil ; for my fortune shall 
never purchase the hand, which my own merits are 
not able to obtain. 

AIR 16th. 

I. 

Curs'd be the wretch whose wealth succeeds 
To buy the heart he cannot move, 
And to the altar rais'd for love, 
His trembling captive leads. 

II. 

Long may her cold reluctant charms^ 

Possess'd, but not enjoy'd, 

With lifeless beauty fill his arms 3 

And leave his heart a void. [Exeunt, 



Scene, the Elm Grove. 
Enter Sophia. 

AIR 17th. 

Sweet minstrel of the midnight hour, 
Who, from thy solitary bower, 

Pourest thy plaintive trill, 

When all the woods are still. 
Oh, let my virgin sorrows float, 
Responsive to thy widow'd note, 

For nought but love forlorn can be 

The burthen of thy melody, 
Breathing so musically forth thy woes, 
Night borrows silence from each dying close. 

Soph* This second letter of Constant's puzzles me 
still more than his former one. Indeed he appears 
to have forgotten that he had written the first. It 
shews, however, that his reason is less disturbed. 

Enter Constant. 

Constant ! 

Cons. Sophia ! (He endeavours to rush into her 
arms, but stops short.) 'Sdeath ! I cannot — 'tis im- 
possible. 



347 

Soph. Is it thus we are to meet ? Do you not know 
me, Constant ? 

Cons. Oh, yes, I know you well ; you are the 
woman whose misfortune would have grieved, had not 
her falsehood undone me. 

Soph. Misfortune ! Falsehood ! he has relapsed 
again. Come, come, you are not well : lean on my 
arm, and recollect yourself. 

Cons. Recollect myself? Was I not an eye witness 
to the whole ? Did I not just now overhear you con- 
fess to that scoundrel attorney that you had resigned 
me for ever. 

Soph. So 5 soj so ! 

Cons. To your utter confusion, I was concealed in 
the closet, and privy to it all. 
Soph. Ha, ha, ha ! Ha, ha 5 ha ! 
Cons. 'Sdeath ! to be laugh'd at, too ! 
Soph. Laugh'd at ! Why, could you really suppose 
I should invent such a fable, but to avoid his odious 
addresses : though, had the story been true, your mis- 
fortune would have been as great as mine. 
Cons. My misfortune ? 

Soph. Come, come, the fellow you sent with the 
letter blabb'd the secret. 
Cons. Did he ? 
Soph. Yes, he told me the whole affair. 



318 

Cons. And what did he tell you ? 

Soph, Nay, nay — the masqued battery. 

Cons, The masqued battery ? 

Soph. Why hav'nt you 

Cons, What? 

Soph. Lost your right arm ? 

Co?is. My right arm ! 

Soph. Then I have been imposed on too. The 
fellow you sent with the letter told me you had lost 
your right arm from the opening of a masqued bat- 
tery. 

Cons. Did he ? The first time I catch him, I'll 
convince him to the contrary. Thus our perplexities 
vanish ; and thus I open both my arms to press you 
once more to this faithful bosom. 

Soph, And thus, with both my legs, I fly to meet 
you. {They embrace.) Yet our interview must be 
short : your friend the lawyer has been robb'd : the 
whole village is abroad : I shall be presently missed, 
and 

Cons. True ; our being found together might lead 
to discoveries which, at present, must not be made. 

Soph, And yet, after so long an absence 

Cons, My dear girl, we must submit to necessity. 
We part but till to-morrow, when I shall openly avow 
myself, and claim you at your father's hands. 



349 



AIR 18th. (Duet.) 

I. 

As men who long at sea have been. 
Kindle at nature's robes of green; 
As joys the pilgrim's thirsting soul, 
To hear the living waters roll ; 
As mother's clasp their infants dear, 
And eye them thro' a joyful tear $ 

So lovers meet, 

With rapture greet, 

II. 

As maids with midnight vigils pale, 
Shut up some sweet love- woven tale ; 
As anglers, at day's parting gleam, 
Still linger o'er the darkling stream ; 
As exiles bid the land farewell, 
Where all their warmest wishes dwell ; 
So lovers part, 
With breaking heart. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene, near Justice Fidget's. 

Enter Toddy. 
Tod. Ecod ! this old port gets into a man's head pre= 



3.50 



sently, and gives such a charming confusion to the — 
such a delightful and pleasant satisfaction to the — 
psha ! what the devil's the matter with me ? 

Enter Constant. 

Cons. So, I have found you at last, scoundrel. 

Tod. Found me, scoundrel ! Sir, you have the ad- 
vantage of me. 

Cons. Don't you know me, villain ? 

Tod. Know you, villain ! Sir, 1 despise insinua- 
tions; standoff; familiarity corrupts contempt — -and 
evil communications breed good manners. 

Cons Why, you impudent drunken rascal ! do you 
know me now, [beats him) sirrah ? 

Tod. Oh, yes ; mercy ! yes, sir ; I think I can feel 
the knowledge of you. 

Cons. As you hope to keep a whole bone in your 
skin, tell me what you did with the letter. 

Tod. The letter, sir ? What letter ? 

Cons. No prevarication, villain : what did you with 
the letter ? 

Tod. Lost it, sir. 

Cons. Where, sir ? 

Tod. That's the very thing I wanted to find out. 

Cons. No jesting, six; answer me immediately. 



3.51 



Tod. You must know, then, sir, I took the letter, 
and put it into my pocket, and walking steadily and 
soberly on, as I do now, sir, I came to the Blacka- 
moor's Head 

Cons. Well, sir ? 

Tod. There, as the devil would have it, I met with 
a friend — I shouldn't have met with him if the wind 
hadn't been south-west — so feeling presently for the 
letter, as I wanted a lady for a toast «. 

Cons. Impudent rascal ! 

Tod. I found it was gone, sir. 

Cons. Well, sir ? 

Tod. But my friend being an excellent grammarian, 
and a sort of a poet, I got him to write another. 

Cons. And he did it ? 

Tod. Touch'd it off presently : Ha, ha, ha ! Ha, 
ha, ha ! I beg pardon, sir ; but — Ha, ha, ha ! 
Ha, ha, ha ! I told him, that simile of the ass would 
never do. 

Cons. And this is the whole truth ? 

Tod. As I hope for mercy, sir. 

Cons. Well, sir, get you gone, and wait for me at 
the inn : and if ever I catch you at these tricks again, 
I'll cure you, for the rest of your life, of getting drunk. 

[Exit. 



352 



Tod. (solus.) Cure me of getting drunk? I defy 
you. I defy the whole college of physicians. I defy 
apothecaries' hall : for though I'm cur'd every morn- 
ing, I'm sure to have a relapse before night. If 
drunkenness be a virtue, thank heaven, I'm incor- 
rigible. My friends have sometimes endeavoured 
to debauch me into sobriety, but it wouldn't do, 

Enter the Justice behind, and followers. 

Just.F. He's drunk. Stand back, and leave, me 
alone with him. (Servants retire,) Your servant, sir. 

Tod. Sir, I am your servant, Do you see that 
great house, yonder ? 

Just. F. Mercy on us ! my house. Well, sir ? 

Tod. Perhaps you're acquainted there? 

Just. F. Oh, yes, I dine there most days in the 
week. 

Tod. Then, perhaps, you know Robin, the butler? 
If not, let me introduce you to the cellar. 

Just. F. I thank you' 5 but I generally contrive to 
introduce myself into the parlour. 

Tod, Then you are an ignoramus, for the best wine 
never goes there. 

Just. F. Indeed. (Aside.) Why you seem to be 
tolerably intimate in the family ? 



S53 



Tod. Hand and glove, from the garret to the 
cellar: I romp with the maids, and tipple with the 
butler. 

Just. F. Then you don't know the master ? 

Tod. I wouldn't be seen in his company : he hasn't 
the soul of a tom-tit, nor the spirit of a dried herring ; 
he's duller than a water drinker, and worse company 
than an empty bottle. No, no, Robin's the lad : I 
-shall never forget him. Now, says he, I'll give you 
some of my master's very old port ; none but his par- 
ticular friends ever drink it ; therefore, says he, if you 
and I drink it, we shall be his particular friends. 
Pretty good logic ! Your opinion, sir ? 

Just. F. Excellent. The fellow has put me into a 
cold sweat. {Aside.) 

Tod. Out it came — for you know there may be two 
keys to one lock : out it came ; but we were both so 
comical, we could neither of us draw the cork. Now 
you know there are two ways of getting wine out of a 
bottle — imprimis, drawing the cork ; that, 1 presume, 
is your way. 

Just. F. You are right, sir. 

Tod. Secundo — knocking off the neck of the 
bottle. 

Just. F. That, I presume, was your way. 

Tod. You are right, sir. 

A A 



S'54< 



Just. F. However, at present, I'd recommend you 
to take care of your own neck. Here, Walter ! 
John ! and the rest of you, seize this fellow, and bring 
him along. 

AIR 19th. (Duet.) 

Just. F. Take him away ! 
Tod. Your reason, I pray ? 
Just. F. To be brief, you're a thief, 

And you'll certainly hang, 

Unless you impeach 

The rest of the gang. 
Tod. We are but two, as I told you but now, 

And each an honest fellow ; 

For Robin, he's as drunk as a sow, 

And I'm a little mellow ; 

Therefore let me be liberated. 

I'm not drunk, as you see, 

Tho' perhaps I may be 

A little elevated. 
Just. F. No, you must not be liberated. 

Tho' when brought before me, 

In due time you shall be 

A little elevated. [Exeunt. 



355 



Scene, the Inn, 

Enter Sturdy and Grace. 

Stur. Nay, nay, girl ; he must be the man. 

Grace. How is it possible that a gentleman capable 
of so generous an action should be guilty of one so 
atrocious. 

Stur. Why that does puzzle me — and yet there 
has been a mystery about both of them ever since they 
arrived ; they have cautiously concealed their names. 
If I have broken rather unawares upon them, they 
have immediately put an end to their conversation : 
and yet, that he should have the audacity to rob a 
man — a lawyer, too — in his own house — in the 
broad day — it puzzles me strangely. Here he comes ; 
I'll put it roundly to him. 

Enter Careless. 

CareL So, you have had a robbery in the village ? 
Stur. What, you have heard of it, then ? 
Caret. One can hear of nothing else. 
Stur. Have you seen the advertisement ? 
Caret. I pass'd one just now, but hadn't the curi- 
osity to read it. 

Stur, It might have been worth your notice. 

AA 2 



356 

(Jar el. Is there then any thing particular in it ? 
Stur. Very particular. I must come to the point. 
(Aside.) Young man, you are my friend, you saved 
me from a jail, and may this right arm rot from me, 
if ever it stirs a finger to help you into one. 

Car el What d'ye mean ? 

Stur. You are discovered. 

CareL That's unlucky, I meant to have kept my- 
self unknown till to-morrow at least. 

Stur. So, so. {Aside to Grace.) They are now 
in full pursuit after you. 

CareL In pursuit after me ? 

Stur. Ay, the blood-hounds of the law ; and here 
comes the first of the pack. (Enter O'Blarney.) 

Gra. Then His all over with him. 

Caret. What the devil can all this mean ? 

G'Blar. What it means? it means no ill to thosg 
who mean well. 

Caret. Speak, sir, to be understood : I don't appre- 
hend you. 

G'Blar. Apprehend me ! there's no occasion for 
it: 'tis I that am to apprehend you. 

Caret. Apprehend me? 

G'Blar. Or some body very much like you ; but 
as a man upon these occasions is apt to forget his 
own person 1 (Takes out one of the hand-bills.) Here 



357 

you^may see yourself as plain as a modern beau in 
his boot tops, when he has clean' cithern himself. 

Corel. (Reading.) Blue coat, white waistcoat, 
leather breeches, and boots. 

G'Blar., Do youjhappen to recollect such a gentle- 
man ? 

Stur. 'Tis not the surprise of guilty 

Gra. No, he is innocent. 

Caret. This is very extraordinary. 

O'JSlar. Extraordinary ! What, that a gentleman 
should be like himself? 

Car el. Yo% sir, I presume^ are an officer of justice? 

G'Blar. A posse comitatus at your service.. 

Caret: I perceive a trifling mistake has arisen, 
which, to clear up, I suppose it will be necessary I 
should accompany you. 

G'Blar. Clear up i why you don't mean to deny, 
it?^ 

Caret. Would you have me confess a crime of which 
I am innocent ?• 

GBlar. By all means: won't it be more like an 
honest gentleman, to rob an attorney of. some dirty 
pounds, shillings, and pence ; than to defraud me of 
an hundred pounds, which I am to have for appre- 
hending you. 

Qarel. Why, that indeed I didn't consider. 
A A 3 



358 



O'Blar. I thought you couldn't have look'd upon 
it with both your eyes. 

Stur. Perhaps it will be satisfactory that we all 
attend ? 

O'Blar. Certainly, you are all exculpated. 

Carel. Very well, sir> we follow you. 

O'Blar. And see you do it prettily, as the nomi- 
native case follows the verb. 

Carel. The accusative, I believe. 

CBlar. Not in my grammar; that's one of the 
things I have set right. 

Carel. Proceed, sir, you are our gentleman usher. 

(JBlarn. As much of the gentleman as you please, 
but as for usher — I've been a little above that for some 
time. 

Justice Fidget's — Scene the last. 

Enter Justice Fidget and Sparrowhawke. 
Just. F. Well, but why didn't you tell me this 
morning that the fellow had robb'd you ? 

Sparr. I saw you were in such an agitation, that — 
Just. F. True, it might have been dangerous: 
well, I have caught two of them; one is a drunken 
servant, who has been doing his best to prevent my 
cellar from being over-stocked ; the other calls him- 
self a gentleman. 



359 

Sparr. Ay, so does every fellow now that doesn't 
come within the vagrant act. Here they are ; now 
the powers of audacity assist me ! 

Enter O' Blarney, with Careless, Sturdy, and 
Grace. The Justice's Servants with Constant. 
Sophia also appears. 

Just. F. Keep them at a distance, be sure you 
keep them at a distance. Now, brother Sparrow- 
hawke, do you see your man. 

Sparr. That's he. (Pointing to Careless.) 

Just. F. Bring him forward — Take care you hold 
him fast tho'. 

OPBlar. That I will, for I hold an hundred pounds. 

Just. F. Pray, friend, what is your name ? 

Caret. That, for the present, must be a secret. 

O'Blar. Perhaps not — this bit of a letter found in 
his pocket — 

Sparr. Give it me — 

OBlar. Not a bit of it, it's my business to read the 
evidence. 

Just. F. Well, well, read, read, read* 

O'Blar. (Reads.) " My dear uncle" (uncle ? that's 
his favourite pawnbroker) "I take the earliest op- 
portunity of acquainting you, that I have once more 
A A 4 



360 



landed on my native shore" (returned from trans-* 
portation, no doubt*) 

Sparr. Proceed, sir, 

O'Blar. " I shall snatch the first opportunity of 
taking you by the hand, and am, as ever, your affec- 
tionate nephew^ Christopher Careless." 

Sparr. Confusion ! 

Just. F. Hey, how, Careless ? Zounds, sir, wilL you 
explain this ? 

Car el. I am the person whose name is subscribed 
to that letter, and your graceless nephew. 

Just. F. Graceless ? why zounds, have you, for want: 
of other amusement, been committing a robbery ? 

Caret, Hold sir — perhaps your friend there,, upon 
recollection 

Sparr. Why now I look again, I profess I have 
my doubts,* tho* he certainly answers in some par- 
ticulars, my conscience won't suffer me to swear po- 
sitively to him% 

O'Blar. No? 1 

Caret. Then, mine will — I am the man f 

O'Blar. To be sure you are. 

Caret. You were perfectly right as to my person^ 
but I believe made a small mistake in my name : this 
js the gentleman you mistook me for. 

Just. F. And who the devil's that ? 



361 



Caret. Son and heir to your friend, the late Mr. 
Constant. 

Just. F. Why he never had but one son, and he — 

Caret. !Died in India, so it was reported — which 
report he has ever since kept alive, the better to 
watch and frustrate the artifices of a scoundrel. 

Just. F. But what proof have you ? 

Caret. There stands one evidence of the fact 
(pointing to Sparrowhawke) who would convince 
any twelve men in Europe. 

Soph. Should there want a second — lean prove 
the having carried on a correspondence with Captain 
Constant for these five years. 

Just. F. Can you ? I wish I had found it out. 

Caret. This added to my knowledge of the fact,, 
and his servant's evidence — 

Sparr. Proof enough, I confess.— Captain Constant, 
as it has never been my practice to persevere in a bad 
cause, I am ready to confess you are alive; and as I 
require nothing more than justice, as all I want is 
common honesty, {They all laugh.) I am ready to come 
to a fair account with you whenever you please. 

Cons. I shall take an early opportunity, sir. 

Sparr. You will find me ready. There may yet be 
some means to prevent him. {Going.) 

CBlar. Sir. (To Sparrowhawke.) 



site 



Sparr. Well. 

G'Blar. As it has lately been the annual custom, 
I would just wish to know whether you would have 
the bells set a ringing this evening. 

Sparr, You may hang yourself in the ropes. [Exit, 

Just. F. So there has been no robbery after all? 

GBlar. No robbery! but still there ought to be 
a reward. 

Caret. A. mere invention, sir. 

Just. F. Captain Constant, give me your hand ; you 
have been some time in India — I don't mean to ask 
any impertinent questions, but young men don't go 
to India for nothing. 

G'Blar. Faith, nor young women neither. 

Just. F. If you still hold your mind to my daughter, 
my blessing, and a snug sum sha'nt be wanting. 

Cons. Here, then, I embark my sum of future 
happiness. ( Takes Sophia's J}a?id.) One thing still 
remains to be done,, to reward the services of our 
honest host. 

Stur. Nay, sir, I look for no reward. 

G'Blar. Faith, but I do. 

Cons. Therefore the more deserve it ; and that you 
may never henceforth incur the oppression of an un- 
feeling landlord, the farm you occupy is your own. 

Stur. This generosity ? 



363 



Cons. No thanks; I will have it so. 

Just, F. Why this is well, this is as it should be; 
after turning aw T ay Robin the butler, I shall be perfectly 
easy again. O, my conscience ! I think the perplexi- 
ties of the evening would make a tolerable play 5 but 
that we must submit to the judgment of our friends. 

FINALE. 

Hence with wrinkled care and sorrow^ 
Gloomy thoughts may cloud to-morrow ; 
Here to-night, w r ith festive glee, 
Mirth shall keep her jubilee. 
See to bless this happy meetings 
Kindred love with friendship vies, 
Hearts with honest rapture beating, 
Glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes. 



THE FISHERMAN, 

AN OPERA. 
IN THREE ACTS. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



THE opera of The Fisherman possesses 
better claims to originality than the majo- 
rity of Mr. Tobin's dramatic pieces. The 
groundwork of the serious part is bor- 
rowed from the commencement of an epi- 
sode in the Diable Boiteux. For the 
comic scenes, the author appears to have 
been indebted solely to his own invention. 
In the group of Martha, Stephano, and 
Balthazar, he has merely developed a situa- 



368 

tion previously suggested in his unpub- 
lished opera of The Gypsies. The speech 
of Stephano in the scene with Rosano has 
evidently furnished the outline of Jaques 
in The Honey-moon. 

It is unnecessary to repeat what has 
been already observed of the predilection 
generally entertained for this opera by the 
author's literary friends — and in Mr. James 
Tobin's letter to Mr. Whitbread, it is dis- 
tinctly stated to have been accepted 
before the fire which destroyed Druiy 
Lane Theatre — yet in 1819, when, under 
the friendly auspices of Mr. Elliston, it 
was at length (by the title of The FisJier- 
man's Hut) announced for representation, 
some suspicions arose whether it was en- 
titled to be classed with Mr. Tobin's 



369 

genuine productions *. The effects of this 
prejudice were visible during the repre- 
sentation, when a sceptical and sometimes 
a captious spirit prevailed over that can- 
dour and liberality which are in general 
the characteristic of a British audience. 
It may have been unfortunate for The 
Fisherman's Hut that it was permitted to 
occupy the place of a full play : it pos- 
sessed, indeed, some rare merits of dia- 
logue and situation ; but the fable appears 
to have been of too slight a texture to 
satisfy the present taste. As a second 

* With respect to the genuineness of this produc- 
tion, it remains to state, that in common with the 
other dramas, which, during the author's lifetime were 
•offered for acceptance, The Fisherman was read to his 
intimate friends — of whom it will be sufficient to 
mention the gentleman who has sketched the poet's 
character in these Memoirs, and the author of the pro? 
jogue to The Honey-moon, 

B B 



piece, it is impossible not to believe that 
it must have obtained universal applause ; 
—as a first, it perhaps solicited indulgence, 
never more gracefully bestowed than in 
cherishing the posthumous reputation of 
a writer so deservedly admired as the 
author of The Honey-moon. 

Under the influence of doubt and mis- 
conception, The Fisherman's Hut, though 
supported by admirable acting, had ob- 
viously little chance of obtaining that po- 
pularity, which might have been expected 
from one of Mr. Tobin*s productions. 
With this painful impression it was on 
the third night withdrawn by Mr. Elliston, 
not without the advice and concurrence 
of the author's friends, in whom the deli- 
cacy and liberality of his conduct could 



371 

not but produce deep and permanent feel- 
ings of gratitude and obligation. 

To the candid and unprejudiced Public^ 
The Fisherman is now submitted, with the 
hope that on perusal it will be found to 
justify the manager's taste, and at some 
more favourable moment become, in a com- 
pressed form, a permanent acquisition to 
that Theatre, in which a generous effort has 
been made to protect it from oblivion. 



bb2 

/ 



DRAMATIS PERSON M. 



Stephano 
Balthazar 
Durazzo 
Rosano 

NlCOLINO 

Countess Modena 

Leah 

Martha 



Mr. Munden. 
Mr. Dowton. 
Mr. Penley. 
Mr. Hamblin, 
Mr. Harley. 

Mrs. West. 

Miss Carew. 
Miss Kelly. 



Sailors, Attendants. 
Scene, SSahj. 



THE FISHERMAN, 



ACT I. 



Scene 1st.— Three Fishermen going to their work* 
AIR 1st. (Trio.) 
1st Fish, How fares it, fellow fisherman, 

This cold and frosty morn ? 
2d Fish, I wish I Were in bed again, 

Till the morning star has bid farewell, 
And the sun has thaw'd the icicle, 
That shivers on the thorn. 
3c? Fish, Yet whether the sun will shine Or no, 
Whether it rain, or hail, or blow, 
We must rise when the cock doth crow, 
And the huntsman sounds his horn. 
Yet merrily we pull, 
When the net is full, 
Whether the sun will shine or no, 
Whether it rain, or hail, or blow. [Exeufiti 
bb3 



374, 

Scene 2d. — A Wood. 

Enter Durazzo and Rosano. 

Mos. Shall we go deeper into the heart of the 
wood, 
Or do our business here ? 

Dur. Here, if you like the spot. — 

To me 'tis admirable. 

Ros. To the points You still 

Refuse to yield pretensions to the lady ? 

Dur. Most peremptorily ! 

Mos. Discourse is vain then ? 

Dur. Idle in the extreme — 

I did not come to talk. 

Bos. Nor 1. 

Dur. My motto is, a word, a blow. 
We've had the word already. 7 

Mos. Now for the blow then. (Draws. They 
jight) and the Countess enters, and runs 
between.) 

Coun. Forbear, I charge you ! 

Dur. Stand aside, lady, and don't spoil 
diversion. 
You'll see fair play, I warrant. 



375 

Ros. Pray retire. 

As scanty water feeds devouring flames— 
Your presence will but heat us more. 

Coun, As ye are men, forbear ! have ye no pity ? 

Dur. Thanks to your kind example, lady, none. 

Ros. Pity? — Come on^ sir, it but wounds her pride, 
That we should die of ought but broken hearts. 

Coun. Oh heavens ! can nothing move you? 

Dur. One thing — 

Coun. Name it ! 

Ros. That on this spot you now at once declare 
Which of us is more worthy of your love. 

Dur. That is not all, fair lady ^ you must swear, 
E'er sunset to become the bride of him 
For whom your heart pronounces. 

Coun. Never ! 

Ros. Then by all things most sapred, this spot 
shall be 
The grave of one or both of us. 

Dur. 1 say amen to that. 

Ros. Determine, lady. 

Dur. Come, she refuses — 

Coun. Oh stop, for mercy ! 

Dur. She trifles still ; come on, sir ! 

Coun. Yet for a moment hear me, ye hard men ! 
If, to prevent the flow of human blood, 
B B 4 



S?6 

1 teach my lips th' involuntary tale; 
Kay more, if I consent to be a bride, 
test one or both of you become a corse ; 
If I do this, you in your turn must swear, 
No ling'ring grudge shall in his bosom live, 
Whom from a cruel bondage I set free,- 
Against his chosen rival. 

Mos. This, by my sword, 
Which nothing else can sheath, I swear \ 
Court. And you, sir? 

Dur. I swear. (They sheath their swords*) 
Court. "Let me intreat you yet forego your purpose. 
(They half draw their swords.) 
Well — if I must. — Oh what a task is mine, 
When that which pleases most, will most offend, 
And, like a double-breathing wind, I bring 
Mildew and health at once ! 

Dur. To the point, lady ! 

Mos. We're on the rack ! 

Court. Both valiant men you are* 

And honourable woers — both of minds 
So richly gifted with rare qualities, 
That, were my eye now searching for a friend, 
I would tell both how equally I priz'd you, 
Weighing your worth in the strict scales of justice ; 
But love is most fantastical, and tries 



S77 

By an uneven balance of its own, 
The qualities of men— a word, a look, 
Will turn the trembling beam. Then let my choice 
Speak woman's folly, and not your deserts. 
I do esteem you both, yea, both as men 
Deep in my heart I honour. — But my love, 
Since you will wring the foolish secret from me 5 
It is Rosano's. (Gives him her hand.) Noble gentle- 
man ! (To Durazzo.) 
Rejoice that you have lost a worthless prize, 
And so escaped repentance. — Come, Rosano. 

JRos. Your hand, sir ! in this firm and faithful 
grasp 
Of friendship, be our enmities forgot — 

Dur. Buried for ever, sir ! 

Ros. And when you woo 

Another lady, may your wishes prosper 
As mine do now. 

Dur. I thank ye, sir, I thank you ! 

Coun. May you find 

Her heart untenanted, and her fair self 
As bountiful to your aspiring hopes, 
As I have been ungracious. — Come, Rosano ! 

[Exeunt Countess and Rosano. 



378 



DlJRAZZO, SOhlS. 

A hopeful end to a long three years wooing, 
Now to be turn'd adrift, and for a man 
Whose love was but of yesterday. — No matter, 
He is a thriving wooer, and has learnt 
The briefest mode of tickling ladies fancies. 
How her full eye gaz'd on him ! 
With what a smother'd gust she press'd his hand ! 
Which as she strove to hide, the crimson blood 
Rush'd to her cheek, and her wild bosom heav'd — 
Not all the language that e'er fell from lips 
Could make confession half so eloquent. — 
I see them still, he presses her white hand, 
Steals like a curling tendril round her waist, 
Hangs o'er her panting bosom, meets her lip, 
He leads her to the altar, the cursed priest 
Has join'd their hands for ever. 
And now — Damnation ! that shall never be : 
No, never, never, never ! — I have sworn 
Against my friend to feed no private grudge, 
Yet kindness to the lady I may bear, 
Nor spot my soul with perjury — To-night, 
Wedded to-night ? My ship lies in the harbour, 
And in the fluttering sails the wind sings fair- 
Look to thy prize, Rosano ! She has struck 



379 

To thee, but e'er thou bring'st her to the port, 
Tempests may rise, and roaring seas o'erwhelm thee. 

[Exit 

Scene toh. — Balthazar's House. 
Balthazar and Leah his Daughter. 

Bal. Poh, poh ! I tell you, you're a silly girl,, you 
must think no more of him. 

Leah. But I cannot help thinking of him, sir. 

Bal. Marry a Christian ? You must not dream of 
such a thing ! a beggarly fisherman ! 

Leah. But I can't dream of any thing else. 

Bal. Yesh, but dreams you know go by contraries. 

Leah. Well, I'm glad of that, for I dreamt last 
night that you would never give your consent. 

Bal. Then you dreamt true ? for I will never give 
my consent. Don't you know he's a Christian. 

Leah. What then, sir ? Love is of all religions. 

AIR 2d.* 

I. 

I care not if Christian or Jew, 

He has faith in the vow which I swore 

And whilst love in his bosom beats true, 
I'll believe in the man I adore. 

* This song was omitted in the representation. 



380 

II. 

What religion a zeal can impart 
Like the simple commandment of lovo, 

His worship is fix'd in the heart, 
And who can an infidel prove. 

III. 

Let each sect still imagine a heav'n 
Above, which they only shall know ; 

True love is a paradise giv'n 
To all who will seek it below. 

Bal. Why dat ish all very true ; but then he is 
poor, miserably poor. 

Leah. But very industrious, sir? 

Bal. And thoughtless and giddy. 

Leah. But then he's so young ! 

Bal. Yesh — he's too young for a husband. 

Leah. Is he, sir ! but perhaps old enough for a wife. 

Bal. No, no, he's a great deal too young. 

Leah. Then I'll wait till he's older. 

Bal. Poh ! poh ! you're a very silly girl, you will 
almost put me in a passion presently. I tell you, you 
must not think of him. There are' many of 
our own tribe that cast upon you the look of love. 
What damsel that is worth a Jew's eye would throw 
herself away upon a christian. I am going to take a 



381 

walk upon the beach, to see if the tide has thrown up 
any thing, and shall be back presently. Marry a 
beggarly fisherman, and a christian too ? I will never 
give my consent. If I could pardon his religion, I 
never could forgive his poverty: So remember, I 
will never give my consent 1 I will never give my 
consent ! {\£#i/. 

Leah sola. 
Why then (when he's old enough) I am afraid I 
shall marry him without. Not love him because he 
Is a Christian. I must have a better reason than 
that. When he looks tenderly at me I cannot read 
christian in his eyes ; and if he presses my hand, no 
jew could do it with more softness ; and when he 
steals a kiss, for he will sometimes be a little im- 
pudent, I am sure no one would know him to be a 
heathen by die touch of his lips. 

AIR 3d- 
L 

Sweet are tiie stolen hours of lore^ 
When none our transports can reprove, 
When faithful hearts together beatf~"-'< 
And lips with trembling rapture greet, 
Oh 1 then love's stolen hours are sweet* 



382 



II. 



Yet midst the dear delight we sigh, 

For oh ! how quick the moments fly ; 

Each other lingering turn to view, 

And 'ere we part oft bid adieu. 

For sweet, &c. [Exit. 

Scene , the Sea Shore. 
I)urazzo and two Seamen of his Crew. 

jDur. You are resolved ? 

1st Sailor. An hundred ducats each, you say ? 

2d Sailor. And the ornaments about her person ? 

JDur. All, all; she has rings enough on her 
fingers to furnish a jeweller's shop. 

1st Sailor. Well, well, we agree, we agree, noble 
captain ; but how shall we secure her ? That young 
Rosano fights like a devil. 

2d Sailor. Why then we'll fight like a couple of 
devils. 

Dur. There will be no occasion : he parted from 
her at the corner of the wood : I saw him mount 
his horse and ride away. 

1st Sailor. Then the bird's ours. But Where shall 
we find her a cage ? 

2d Sailor. I have it. You know the cave in the 
rock where we sometimes stow an odd article or two. 



383 



Dur. Excellent ! You shall keep her there, till I 
can lay my vessel alongside; and when I fire a signal 
gun, bring her on board immediately. 

1st Sailor. The thing's done. 

Dur. Be resolute my lads, and remember the 
reward. 

2d Sailor. All the trinkets ? 

Dur. All, afl ! ; 

2d Sailor. Rings and necklace ? 

Dur. Everything. 

1st Sailor. Along, comrade. 

Dur. Yet hold— should you have an opportunity, 
you may spread a report that you saw her carried to 
the castle — away I 

2d Sailor. We'll give a good account of her. 

\Bxeunt Sailors, 

Durazzo solus. 

Now, scornful beauty, 
'Twill be my turn to triumph — shame on manhood ; 
I've been a whining captive at her feet, 
I blush to think how long ; but still her lip 
Has swell'd with scorn, her eye has been averted. 
Once more I'll try to soften her to love : 
If she relent, 'tis well ! if not, there^s 
But one way left. 



,;"" 384. 

AIR 4th. 
I. 
For me her unrelenting heart 
Ne'er felt love's sympathetic glow, 
Nor ever did a hope impart 
Her coral lip or rising snow; 
For me there lurk'd no kind reply 
Within the circle of her eye. 

II. 

No more a captive at her feet 
I'll waste in sighs the precious hour, 
But since my flame thou wilt not greet, 
Proud beauty, thou shalt feel my power ; 
Amid thy rifled charms I'll prove 
The full revenge of slighted love. 

Scene, the Sea Shore. 

The two Sailors enter *miih the Countess. 

1st Sailor. No struggling, lady ! 'tis vain. 
Court. Do you mean to murder me ? 
2d. Sailor. If you make the least noise. 
Coun. What have I done, or how offended you ? 
1st Sailor. Peace, I say. No one shall hurt you. 
The handkerchief, Soto. (To his messmate.) 
%d Sailor. You have got it. 



385 

1st Sailor. No, no, you have it. 

2d Sailor. Here ! 

Court. What horrible plot is this ? 

1st Sailor. No more, lady, or we shall make you 
dumb for ever. {They bind her eyes.) 

Court. Whither are you carrying me ? 

2d Sailor. You'll know that soon enough ! 

Court. 'Tis towards the sea. 

1st Sailor. Peace, I say! 

Court. Heav'n protect me ! 

2d Sailor-. You shall have a protector soon. (They 
put her into a boat.) Push away, comrade ; I'll look 
after the lady, [Exeunt. 



Scene, Nicolino's Cottage. 
Martha, and Balthazar following her. 

Bal. Why will you not listen to me, Mrs. Martha? 

Mar. Fye for shame ! To have the conscience to 
talk love to me, and yet forbid your daughter to 
marry my brother, because, forsooth, he's a christian,, 

Bal. Yesh — but I do not offer to marry you. It 
is matrimony makes the sin. There is no harm in a^ 
jew loving a christian, but to marry her, oh ! that ish 
the abomination. 

C o 



386 

AIR 5th. 
I. 

When a jew meets a fair christian creature^ 
Young and plump with a delicate skin. 
To love is the first law of nature, 
But to marry — oh ! that is the sin. 

For once in my life 

I was blest with a wife, 
And so dearly we loved, so like sister and brother, 
I swore when she died I would ne'er have another. 

II. 

But grieving I've heard is a folly 
While there's ought to give joy left behind, 
So no longer I'll be melancholy, 
She is easy — and I am resign'd. 

What joy did I feel, 

When the bells rang a peal, 
At our wedding, and when for her death they were 

tolling, 
I thought in the sound there was something con- 
soling. 

Well, what do you say to my song, don't you think 
there is argument and reason in it? (Nicolino 
singing without.) Hey, why is'ht that Nicolino? What 
the devil brings him home so early ? Remember this 

2 



387 

visit was to him in the way of business. You under- 
stand me. 

Nicolino enters. 

Nic. Hah ! Master Balthazar, you here ? The very 
man I wanted to light upon. 

Bal. That ish fortunate, for I was on the look out 
for you. 

Nic. Indeed ! What this visit was intended for 



me 



Bal. Oh yesh ! It was intended for you. 

Nic. What you call'd when you did'nt expect to 
find me at home ? Well, that's fashionable how- 
ever ! You were'nt, I see, content to leave your card. 

Bal. Oh, no ! I had too much politeness for that. 

Nic. Here, girl, go and hang them to dry, and get 
my dinner ; I've a little business with my friend Bal- 
thazar and must be private. [Exit Martha. 

Bal. Business with me, and what ish dat ? Have 
you picked up any old china, or rings, or trinkets ? 

Nic. Why yes, I have picked up a bit of a trinket. 
What think you of that, master Jew? {Shewing 
a Diamond Necklace.) What think you of that? I 
thought it would make your eye sparkle. 

Bal. Bless me ! let me see it. Diamonds as I 
live. [Aside.) How did you get this? 

Nic. How ? Why, caught it in my net. 
c c £ 



388 



Bal. Pho ! pho ! caught the moon in your net, 

Nic. Why, so I have., very often for that matter, 
but I never could bring it ashore. I tell you I 
caught it in my net ! D'ye think I lie ? Real diamonds, 
master Balthazar. 

Bal. Real diamonds, Ha, ha, ha ! — of the very 
first water. (Aside.) Real diamonds? Ha, ha, ha ! 
dat ish very good I dat ish very pleasant ! Real 
diamonds ? Well dat ish very good I 

Nic. What are they ? 

Bal. Real diamonds ! Ha, ha, ha ! I wonder you 
don't call them sapphires or topazes, or onyx's, or 
rubies, or emeralds. Real diamonds, well, dat ish 
very good i dat ish very pleasant indeed ! 

Nic. Well, but what are they ? 

Bal. Chrystal, rock chrystal, very pretty rock 
chrystals. Real diamonds, Ha, ha, ha ! 

Nic. Well, I thought they couldn't be diamonds ! 
they are set in gold however ? 

Bal. Oh yesh, they are certainly set in gold ; I 
might deceive you in that particular, but I scorn to 
impose upon my friend. 

Nic. Well, what d'ye bid ? 

Bal- Me? Oh, I've no mind to purchase. I 
must have it at any price. (Aside.) The gold to be 
sure is worth a trifle, but as for the stones, I wouldn't 



389 

pick them up in the street. Besides, I am so unlucky 
in all my bargains with you. The last oyster pearls 
I bought of you I was a great loser by ; but you are 
Tny friend, and I don't mind if I do sometimes make 
a losing bargain with my friends. 

Nic. That's fair; tor your friends, I believe,, make 
a great many losing bargains with you. 

Bal. Ha, ha, ha! You will have your joke, you 
will have your joke, I see. I must have the necklace 
tho\ 

Nic. At one word, you shall have it for twenty ducats. 

Bal. Dat is too much, upon my conscience it is 
too much. It is worth a thousand at least. [Aside). 
Times are very hard ! Provisions very dear ! 1 gave 
yesterday a florin a pound for mutton ; then the 
weather is so fine, the sea is so smooth, and they 
build their ships so damn'd tight, there has been only 
one boat overset for this month past, and that was 
whilst I was at synagogue. And as for a shipwreck, 
mercy on me ! there hasn't been a shipwreck these 
twelve months. 

Nic. What, at your old tricks, friend Balthazar ? 
Come, come, shall I have the money ? 

Bal. Well, 'tis a hard price upon my shoul ! a 
very hard price ! Yet you know I don't like to haggle 
with my friends. Tv/enty ducats ! what will become 
c c 3 



390 

of me ! Well, you must have the money — yet upon 
my honour 'tis a very hard price. Times are very 
hard, provisions very dear ! Well, well, you must 
have the money; dere ish the twenty ducats, and 
much good may you do with them ! 

Nic. And there is the necklace, and much good 
may it do you ! 

Bal. Well, they are pretty chrystals enough, very 
pretty chrystals indeed ! It will do for my daughter 
Leah — or another very much like it. [Aside.) [Exit, 

Nicoli^o solus. 
A lucky stroke of fortune will do more for a man 
in a minute than a week's drudgery. I might have 
had thirty, I believe, if I had stood out ; but in driv- 
ing a bargain I'm no match for a Jew. — My trade is 
to catch fish— his to snare men; and tho' I under- 
stand my business tolerably, I believe he's the more 
successful angler of the two. 

AIR 6th. 
I. 

Most fish that inhabit the sea 
With my net I can take now and then, 
Yet how much more successful is he 
Who can thrive as a fisher of men : 



391 

For tho' some are as simple as dace, 
And greedy as gudgeons a few, 
Yet I fancy that is not the case 
With a lawyer, a maid, or a Jew, 

II. 

Your lawyer some say is a shark, 
Yet he preys both by land and by water ; 
And perhaps 'twould be nearer the mark, 
If we dubb'd him a black alligator. 
To catch him there is but one rule, 
A rogue can best hamper his brother ; 
And they tell me, like pikes in a pool, 
Your lawyers will bite one another. 

III. 

For cunning a Jew has no match, 

He'll slip through your hands like an eel ; 

And maids are still harder to catch, 

When of'youth the first blushes they feel; 

But with patience an angler must wait 

Till older and older they grow^ 

When like trouts they'll all rise at his bait, 

Tho' a feather — the very first throw. [Exit. 



c c 4 



392 



Scene 



Enter Crier, People, and Balthazar following. 

Crier. " To all Catholic people: whereas divers 
" villains unknown, and whose persons cannot there- 
" fore be described, have privately, and in open 
" defiance of all law, traitorously, libellously, 
" wickedly, maliciously, and flagitiously, being insti- 
(c gated by the prince of darkness, carried off or 
" eloped with the Countess of Modena, that angel 
" of light." 

Bal. Carried off a countess ? Well, dat ish no 
business of mine ! 

Crier. " This is to give notice, that whoever will 
" apprehend and discover, or discover and apprehend 
" these unchristian ravishers and violators, whether 
te male or female, shall receive a reward of one thou- 
" sand ducats." 

Bal. One thousand ducats ? Oh, dat ish business 
of every body's. My dear friend, did you say one 
thousand ducats? 

Crier. Don't friend me — I wasn't speaking to you. 
— " To all Catholic people." 

Bal. Yesh, but you should always read that part 
of a proclamation twice, which speaks of the reward 
- — But did you say one thousand ducats? 



393 

Crier. A reward of one thousand ducats—one half 
to be paid on the fact being proved? and the other 
after release. 

Bal. (Aside.) One thousand ducats — mercy on me, 
one thousand ducats ! 

Crier. u The countess, at the time of her being 
«" carried off, had on a blue silk gown, several valu- 
" able rings, and a diamond necklace." 

Bal. Mercy on me, what does he say ? a diamond 
necklace ? My dear friend, do repeat that part of the 
proclamation, tho' I am not a Catholic — Did you say 
the countess had on a diamond necklace ? 

Crier. A blue gold — Psha ! I wish you would not 
put me out. — A blue silk gown, several valuable ringSj, 
and a diamond necklace. [Exit, with the people. 

Balthazar solus. 

Mercy on me, what is this ? The countess carried 
off and had on a diamond necklace ? Then my dear 
friend Nicolino is a rogue ! Caught it in his net ! 
If this necklace should be the countess's, and it 
should be found upon me, the excellence of my 
character would hardly save my neck. I will go for 
the officers of justice — But then if I should bring my 
dear friend to the gallows ? It would go against my 
conscience to hang my friend — but to hang myself, 



394 

that would be suicide. Oh ! that would go more 
against my conscience. If one of us must be exalted, 
it is but common politeness to give the preference 
to my friend, which, in such a case, I am sure he 
would give to me. — I will go for the officers of 
justice. 

AIR 7th. 

When I wash a very little boy, 
And sat on my father's knee, 
He call'd me his darling, his pride, and his joy> 
And my pretty Balthazar, said he_, 
Whilst you live, be more willing to borrow than 
lend, 
For the world is a scramble for pelf. 
And tho' you should now and then think of a friend, 

You must always remember yourself. 
So I look'd something roguish, but made no repJy^ 
Yet my father was pleas'd with the turn of my eye, 
And my dear mother said., 
As she patted my head, 
I think that Balthazar will do bye and bye. [Exit. 



395 



ACT II. 

Scene 1st. — Justice Stephano's. 
Stephano followed by Rosano. 

Hos. I will have justice, sir, speedy justice. 

Steph. Well, sir, you shall have justice — hav'n't 
I quickened her pace with a reward. Don't I know 
the efficacy of a bribe ? Am I ignorant of my office ? 
'Advertize a rogue without a reward, what's every 
body's business is nobody's business — offer a thousand 
ducats for apprehending him, what's nobody's busi- 
ness becomes every body's business immediately. 
Well, sir. 

Enter Servant. 

Serv. Kicolino the fisherman is without, charged 
by Balthazar the Jew with having been concerned in 
carrying off the Countess of Modena. 

Steph. How? 

JRos. Are you sure the countess ? 

Serv. Certain, sir. 

Steph. Bring them before me. {Exit Servant.) 
There, sir ! you see justice does not quite limp upon 
crutches. — I knew your public-spirited men would 
bestir themselves the moment they heard of the 
reward. 



39b 



Enter Nicolino, Balthazar, fye. 

Nic. Indeed, my lord, I'm innocent ! 

Steph. Who is your accuser ? 

Bal. It ish I. — I am his friend and accuser. 

Steph. You, Signor Balthazar ? 

Bal. Yesh, I. 

Steph. Speak then ! what is your charge ? 

Bos. Quickly, quickly, sir ! 

Bal. You must know, as I was going my rounds 
this morning to see if I could pick up any thing in my 
way of business, any pearls, or shells, or trinkets, for 
you know it is my business, to buy the shells, and the 
pearls, and the trinkets — - 

Bos. Well, well ! 

Steph. Silence ! To the point, Signor Balthazar, if 
you please. 

Bal. So you see I went into the house of my 
friend Nicolino, for he is one of the oldest of all my 
friends — 

Bos. Psha ! to the point, sir ! 

Steph. Again signor ! (To Rosano.) You either 
forget yourself, or don't remember who I am — 
proceed ! 

Bal. So 1 asked him if he had any thing to dispose 
of in my way, and he put his hand in his pocket 
and pulled out this necklace. (Produces the necklace.) 



397 

Ros. By heav'n, 'tis hers ; she had it on at parting ! 

Steph. Proceed if you pi ease — 

Bal. So finding it wash diamonds — 

Nic. Chrystals ! As I am a Christian he swore 
they were only chrystals, and gave me twenty ducats 
for it — Didn't you tell me they were only chrystals. 

Bal. Yesh, yesh, I told him they were only chrys- 
tals, I confess I told him they were chrystals. If I 
had said they were diamonds he would never have 
parted with them, and then there would have been no 
proof of the fact you know. 

Nic. As I live he swore they were only chrystals I 

Steph. That doesn't signify. Is this the necklace 
you sold him ? 

Nic. It is the same. 

Steph. Proceed,, Balthazar, proceed — 

Bal. So finding they were diamonds, and suspect- 
ing he had got them dishonestly, I pretended to buy 
them for myself, and hearing the countess was carried 
off, I have apprehended him I for tho' he is my friend* 
yet, thank heaven, I can sacrifice my friend to the 
good of my country, and here I have brought him* 
and I hope he will be able to give a good account 
of himself. 

Steph. You have done well, and your country is 
obliged to you. And now* sir ! Don't be frighten'd* 
young man ! Where did you get this necklace ? 



393 

■Kic. Drew it on shore in my net. 

Bal. Dat vash what he told me. 

Bos* Impossible ! 

Stepk. Recollect yourself, and don't be frightened. 
T ask you again — where did you get this necklace ? 

Ros. He hesitates, put him to the torture ! 

Steph. Sir, I shan't put him to the torture ! 

Bal. Oh no ; do not put my dear friend to the 
torture 1 

Steph. Punish a man before he is found guilty ? 
Fye fye, fye ! Put him to the'torture ? Break a man's 
bones upon speculation ? 

Bos. His looks proclaim his guilt. 

Steph. Very likely, but I sit here as a judge and 
not as a physiognomist. So speak, young man, without 
fear of the torture ; where did you get this necklace ? 

Nic Indeed I have spoken truth. Three times I 
cast my net into the sea and it came back empty. 
The fourth time as I drew it towards the shore I saw 
something glitter within it like a star. At first I took 
it for some strange fish. Would it had been one. 
That was the thing I saw. I hastened home and 
sold it to the Jew. 'Twas a bad act, I should have 
sought the owner, for that my heart smites me, but of 
any other crime, I am as innocent as the unborn babe. 

Steph. 'Tis a very strange story, young man, a 
very strange story indeed I 



399 

Nic. Upon my life^ 'tis true ! 

Hos. It is impossible ! 

Steph. Silence, once more ! The Countess has 
disappeared, probably ravished, possibly murdered. 

Nic. God forbid ! 

Stepk. This is the necklace she had on, it has 
been found on you. The story you have told is 
improbable, though it may be true ; for the present 
you must go to jail. 

Nic. My lord ! to jail ? Upon my soul I'm inno- 
cent. 

Steph. Or, hold ! You shall have till sunset to 
search for the Countess. Set him at liberty ! 'Till 
sunset you are free ! But observe me ! If you attempt 
to escape, the next tree shall be your gallows, and 
the first man you meet your executioner. 

Nic. Would I had ne'er been born. 

[Exeunt all but Rosang. 

RoSANO SOUtS. 

AIR 8th. 

I. 

Lost are the visions of life's early morn 
When pleasure breath'd her spicy gales around^ 
Hope's gentle sorcery shall no more adorn, 
With thousand rainbow-tints, the fairy ground ; 



400 



II. 



O'er which young fancy erst her votary led ; 
Chased by severer reason's beams away, 
The flattering phantoms of delight are fled, 
As morning mists before the blaze of day. 

III. 

Oh ! could I linger in that blissful trance, 
With hope still whispering joy for ever near, 
Then might I mock the rage of rude mischance, 
Dead to the world, to sorrow and to care. [Exit, 

Scene, the Justice's House. 
Justice and Martha* 

Mar. Indeed, Mr. Justice, he is innocent, Carry 
off a countess ! He wouldn't lift up his hand against 
a fly. 

Steph. He must go to prison for all that. 

Mar. But not to-night? 

Steph. At sunset, unless the lady is found and 
declares his innocence. 

Mar. You will not have the heart to send him 
there. 



401 

EtepJi. No; I have already commanded it to be 
done. 

Mar. But you may yet prevent it. 

Steph. May? Oh yes, I may prevent it. I have 
the power no doubt. I can punish, and I can pardon. 
Yes, yes, I may prevent it certainly : there are ways 
of saving a man from the gallows, tho' he has the 
halter about his neck. But then, what is it to me ? 
Why should I interfere ? 

Mar. For mercy's sake, which teaches man to spare 
the guilty, much more to save the innocent. 

Steph. And what does it teach woman, Mrs. Mar- 
tha ? Come, come, one good turn deserves another. 
If you expect I should shew mercy to your brother, 
you must have a little pity for me. 

Mar. So, so, so. {Aside.) What, you would have 
me sacrifice my honour to save his life. 

Steph. Your honour ? Now is that talking like a 
woman of sense ? You know your reputation will be 
safe, and then what signifies your honour ? 

Mar. Aye, but when a man has ruined a woman's 
virtue, he cares little about her reputation. 

Steph. Very true ! But if he cares a good deal 
for his own, you know it's much the same thing. 

Mar. Why that's true ! There's something in that 
D D 



402 



to be sure; — and if I thought you would really save 
him — ■ 

Steph, Really save him ? Only suffer me to pay 
you a short, snug, charitable visit this evening, a 
little after sunset, and I'll bring his pardon in my 
pocket. 

Mar. But then, then, the scandal of the thing — for 
a grave judge like you, to pay a charitable visit to a 
poor fisherman's sister — If you would come in some 
sort of a disguise now — 

Steph. I have no objection to that ; none in the 
least. Only ensure me the pleasure of the meeting, 
and any of my friends are welcome to the reputation 
of it. 

Mar, Let me see then ! What think you of 
your friend Balthazar ? You know he sometimes 
visits at our house : suppose you dress yourself like 
him. 

Steph. What ! turn Jew ? 

Mar, Psha ! d'ye think he wouldn't turn Christian 
upon such an occasion ? 

Steph. But then you know, he's my friend. 

Mar. And therefore you have a natural right to 
make free with his character. I'm sure he'd make 
very little scruple with yours. 



403 



Stepli. But hold! hold \ if I should consent to soften 
matters, how will you silence Balthazar. 

Mar. Oh ! a bribe, you know, will do for him. 

Steph. Right, he's a mercenary dog, and would 
sooner be tempted by a purse of ducats than a para- 
dise of houris ! {A servant enters, and ivhispers the 
judge.) Aye, aye, I'll come immediately. You won't 
forget — soon after sunse£~a soft tap at the door. 

Mar. Remember the pardon. 

Steph. Yes, yes, do you get an absolution ready for 
my sins, and I'll have a pardon for his, depend upon 
it! 

Mar. Oh ! Mr. Justice, your worship is a sad 
man. 

Steph. No, no, you mean you are a pretty girl; tho' 
if you had been old and ugly, I would have done 
you justice. I do strict justice to the whole sex; 
tho', to confess the truth, when I meet with such a 
woman as you, I am too apt to exceed it. 

AIR 9th. 

The sight of an ill-favoured wench 
Ne'er perplexes a judge in his duty, 
But who that e'er sat on the bench 
Has been proof to the magic of beauty ; 
D D 2 



404 

Tho' clear as the day her offence is, 

And all fear that nothing can save her, 

Yet her eye full of woe 

And her bosom of snow 

And her blushing cheek in her favour 

Are strange evidence : 

So feeling temptation within, 

Her crimes he resolves to connive at, 

And acquits her in court of one shy, 

To teach her another in private. [Exit. 

Martha sola. 

So, so, so, Mr. Justice ; if you bring me a pardon 
for Nicolino, I'll take care you shall want no absolu- 
tion for yourself — but hush ! 

The Jew enters, speaking to the servants without. 
Bal. {To Servants.) Well, well, don't disturb him, 
I can wait a little. — Ha, Mrs. Martha ! This is a 
pleasure I didn't expect. What you are come, I 
suppose, to plead the cause of your poor brother ? 

Mar. Your friend you mean, whom you first 
cheated, and then betray'd — 

Bal. Well, if I cheated my friend, it was out of 
love for you 



405 



Mar. Love for me ? 

Bal. Yesh, I meant the necklace for you; your 
charms, your eyes, your lips, your shape — theyare all 
accomplices. 

Mar. And you betrayed him out of love for me ? 

Bal. Oh no, that wash out of love for my country ! 
But you know he's not hanged yet ; and if you could 
only cast upon me the look of affection — 

Mar. Well, what then ? 

Bal. Why then I think I could contrive to soften 
the evidence a little. Let those eyes shine comfort 
upon me, and they shall drop no more tears for 
Nicolino. 

Mar. That is, you'll be a rogue, if I'll consent to 
be—something a great deal worse. 

Bal. Pho, pho ! you know I would marry you, 
but it is against my religion and my conscience. 

Mar. And what does your conscience say to ruin- 
ing a poor girl ? 

Bal. Oh ! my conscience says nothing at all about 
that. 

Mar. Then your conscience is a very easy one. 

Bal. Yesh, a good man has always an easy 
conscience. 

Mar. Why, you see it isn't so much the thing itself 

D D 3 



406 



as the scandal of it that I'm afraid of — If I thought 
you would certainly be secret. 

Bal. Aye, now you talk like a woman of sense. 
Secret ! do you take me for a young rake who chat- 
ters his gallantries over his wine ? What can I get by 
blabbing ? 

Mar. True ; then upon one condition — 

Bal. What ish dat ? 

Mar. That you dress yourself like a Christian. 

Bal. Oh ! if dat ish all, I will dress myself like a 
Turk, a Christian, or a — 

Mar. Well then — in the first place, you must cut 
off your beard. 

Bal. Cut off my beard? Ash I hope to be shaved, 
I will not cut off my beard ! 

Mar. Then Nicolino must be hanged, and I will 
remain an honest woman. 

.£>«/. But why should I cut off my beard? 

Mar. Because you must dress yourself like Signor 
Stephano ; he,, you know, is a judge, and by virtue of 
his office may visit any body at any hour. 

Bal. But then, if I should be discovered ? 

Mar. No fear of that ; nobody dares peep under 
the robe of a judge. 

Bal. Well, dat ish true ; and then you know — 



407 

he, he, ha ! I shall have the pleasure of the thing, and 
he — ha, ha, ha ! will have the reputation of it ! 

Mar. Yes — ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

Bal. I dare say he'd do as much for me. 

Mar. That I'm sure he would. 

Bal. But hold ! hold ! If I consent to soften the 
evidence, how will you prevail upon his worship ? 

Mar. Pho ! I've settled matters with him already. 

Bal. What, a bribe, I suppose ? 

Mar. Yes. 

Bal. Oh, he's a sad mercenary dog. Well, well, 
then ; a little after eight you shall see Signor Stephano 
— ha, ha, ha ! 

Mar. Yes, or somebody very much like him — 
ha, ha, ha ! 

Bal. Ha, ha, ha ! very good ! but can't it be done 
without my cutting off my beard ? 

Mar. Oh, no, impossible. You know your beard 
will grow again. 

Bal. Dat ish true. I did not think of that. Hark ! 
I hear Signor Stephano : you'll see me a little after 
eight. 

Mar. You won't forget the pardon. 

Bal. No, no ! (As Martha goes out on one side 
the Stage, Stephano enters on the other.) I don't 
D D 4 



408 

like cutting off my beard. — But hush ! Signor Ste- 
phano, your very humble servant. How shall I 
break it to him. {Aside.) 

Steph. I understand you have business with me, 
Signor Balthazar. I hope he'll begin the subject. 

(Aside.) 

Bal. Why, I must confess there is an affair I 
wished to have consulted you upon ; but then it is a 
melancholy business, and I do not like to make my 
friends melancholy. I have been thinking, Signor 
Stephano, of my poor friend Nicolino, who is to be 
hanged to-morrow ; and though my conscience was 
his accuser, yet his fate touches my bowels with pity 
and commiseration. 

Steph. The very thing. (Aside.) Why, Signor 
Balthazar^ to confess the truth — I don't know how it 
is — there's no accounting, you know, for the influence 
of the tender feelings — but I can't help pitying the 
young man, myself: but then, you know, justice 

Bal. Yesh, I know justice must be done: but 
mercy, Signor Stephano — my dear friend, Signor 
Stephano, mercy, you know — 

Steph. Why, that's true ! Justice should be tem- 
pered with mercy. 'Tis a hard case, I must confess, 

Bal. Oh, yesh, a very hard case. 



409 

Steph. But then, the necklace being found in hit- 
possession 

Bal. Why, dat ish a little aukward, to be sure. 

Steph. But then, you know, it's possible he may 
have found it. 

Bal. Do you think it possible ? 

Steph. Yes, I do think it very possible. 

Bal. Upon my conscience, I think it probable. 

Steph. I think it very probable myself: and then, as 
you observe, there's no positive proof against him. 

Bal. None at all. If I should hang an innocent 
man, and my friend too 

Steph. You'd be damn'd, to a certainty. 

Bal. I should never sleep in my bed without seeing 
his gibbet, and hearing the rattling of his chains ! 

Steph. Nor I. Then, to cut him off in the very 
bloom of his youth ! 

Bal. Not yet twenty. 

Steph. And his poor sister ! 

Bal. Will be left quite desolate. 

Steph. Nobody to comfort her ! 

Bal. Nobody ! 

Steph. I declare it brings the tears into my eyes. 

{Weeps.) 

Bal. So it does into mine, I protest. (Weeps.) I 
have been thinking, Signor Stephano 



410 

Steph. Well? 

Bal. That if 

Steph. What ? 

Bal. We were to endeavour 

Steph. To save him ? 

Bal. Yesh. 

S^/z. Agreed — your hand — 

Bal. You're a merciful man, Signor Stephano ! A 
very merciful man ! 

Steph. It's in my nature : I can't help it. 

Bait. My own failing — I've too much of the milk 
of human kindness, myself. s 

AIR 10th. (Duet.) 

Bal. Shall we save him ? Step. Agreed ! 
Both. 'Tis a merciful deed, 

Not to cheat of his fee the physician. 
Bal. Oh, I rather would die, 

Twenty deaths, Step. So would I, 
Both. Than hang a young man on suspicion. 
Steph. Both early and late, 

The thought of his fate, 
To my conscience 'twould stick like a blister. 
Bal. And if he should swing, 
What a terrible thing, 
It would be for his poor little sister ! 



411 

Steph. Fatherless and motherless ! 
Bal. Sisterless and brotherless ! 

Left to mourn ! 
Steph. Forlorn ! 

Who shall hear her sigh ? 
Bal. Who her tears shall dry ? 
Both. Alas ! I fear, neither you nor I. 

Steph. 'Twould be kind just to step and tell her not 
to make herself too unhappy. 

Bal. So it would. 

Steph. I'll do it immediately. 

Bal. My dear friend, I can't think of giving you 
the trouble : it is in my way, and I'll just look in and 
quiet her apprehension. — Oh, Signor ! if every body 
felt for the distresses of their fellow- creatures, like 
you and me, the world would be very different from 
what it is. [Exeunt. 

Scene, the Sea Shore. — Nicolino and Leah. 

Nic. A murderer? Leah, do I look like a murderer ? 

Leah. Nay, be comforted, Nicolino : I am sure 
you are innocent. 

Nic. Innocent ? Heaven knows I am innocent 
Commit a murder, and in the broad day-light too ! 
Thou knowest when our cat kitten'd I could not 
find in my heart to have one of them drowned. I've 



412 

a clog that's past service, yet before I'd hang him, 
I'd starve with him. Why, the tree, the old tree, 
that stands by the hut's side, I once had the axe in 
my hand, but I couldn't strike, lest there should be 
life in it. 

Leah, Yes, Nicolino; and when I made your last 
net — 

Nic. Curse on the net ; not but that I am equally 
obliged to you, Leah : — but what were you going to 
say? 

Leah. You told me again and again to make the 
meshes big enough for the little fish to escape. 

Nic. So I did ; yet they say I'm a murderer ; that 
I have murder'd a fellow-creature, and that fellow- 
creature a woman ! and that woman a Countess ! 

Leah. Nay, don't grieve so; let the worst come 
to the worst, you know you are innocent. 

Nic. Why, to be sure, that will be a great conso- 
lation to me after I'm hang'd. You comfort me more 
like a wife than a mistress. Didn't you hear a noise ? 

Leah. No, 'tis your fancy. 

Nic. True, that makes a sound in every thing. 
— Again ! that is not fancy, there is some one stirring 
in the rock : this way, softly ; this way. [ They retire. 



413 



The Two Sailors who carried off the Countess 
come forward from the rock. 

1st Sail. She cannot escape, comrade. 

2d Sail. No, no, she's safe enough. 

1st Sail. So is that damn'd necklace, I fear : what 
a couple of lubbers have we been to fight for a prize, 
which by all the laws of war we ought to have divid- 
ed at leisure. 

2d Sail. Well, well, that's past: we have some 
hopes yet. There has been a huge swell, and who 
knows but the surf may have thrown it ashore ? 

15/ Sail. Along, then. 

2d Sail. If we find it, no more fighting ; you and 
I at best, I'm afraid, are but a couple of rogues; but 
we must be sad dogs indeed to attempt to cheat one 
another. [Exeunt* 

Nicolino and Leah come forward. 

Nic. They have turn'd the point, and are clear out 
of sight. 

Leah. You heard them talk of a necklace ? 

Nic. Yes, Leah, and of a lady. If it should be the 
Countess. 

Leah. Oh, Nicolino ! if we should get the reward. 

Nic, Hark ! {The Countess sings from the inte- 
rior of the rock.) 



414 



AIR 11th. 
Spirits of the unfathom'd deep^ 
Who mid the storm your vigils keep? 
Catching with greedy ears^ 
Of sinking mariners, 
The dying groans ; 

Yet o'er their white unshrouded bones, 
Will sometimes weep. 

Leah. It must be she : none but the countess could 
sing so sweetly. 

Nic. 'Tis either she or a mermaid — Hark I 

Oh ! leave them to their wat'ry grave, 
And ye who on the flagging whirlwind sleep, 
Awake, arise^ a living soul to save, 
Spirits of the unfathom'd deep. 

Leah. She has done now. 

Nic. Hush ! yes, quite done. I'll venture in. 

Leah. Nay, stop : there may be fifty more of them ; 
and perhaps it may not be the Countess after all. 

Nic. No matter, 'tis the voice of a woman in dis- 
tress and I will enter if there should be an hundred. 
I had better die like a man to-night, in doing an act 
of humanity, than be hang'd like a scoundrel to- 
morrow, for a crime I never committed. 



415 



Leah. Then you shall take me with you ! 

Nic. No, you must stay without ; and if these fel- 
lows should return before I have done my business, 
you must contrive to draw them from the spot: so 
shut the entrance after me. (She shuts the cave after 
him.) 

Leah, (sola.) How my heart flutters ! If it should 
be the Countess, and we should get the reward — 
Hark ! every thing is still. (Listens at the cave.) A 
thousand ducats : hush ! I hear footsteps — all is 
lost — they've turn'd the corner again, and are coming 
this way. (She retires.) 

Enter Sailors. 

2d Sail. Gone^ past redemption. 

1st Sail. Yes, by this time it's become a fixt star at 
the bottom of the sea : but it's time we should take a 
peep at the lady. (As they go towards the rock, Leah 
comes forward, and sings.) 

AIR 12th. 

Would you Fortune's minions be, 
Mariners, come follow me ! 

1st Sail. Follow you ? and who the devil are vou ? 
2d Sail. Hush ! messmate ; she has a nice pipe of 
her own. (Leah sings.) 



416 

I in darkest night can peep, 
Twenty fathoms in the deep, 
With my piercing eye can sound, 
Where no plummet ere touch'd ground, 
And all things at bottom see, 
Mariners, come follow me. 

1st Sail. The devil you can ! Are you a witch or 
a fairy ? (Leah sings. J 

I will shew you precious store, 
Cast from wrecks upon the shore* 
Lead you to each secret shell 
Where a precious pearl doth dwell ; 
And if diamonds you would see, 
Mariners come follow me. 

[She runs out, and they after her. 

Nicolini and Countess. 

Nic. This way, lady — nay, look not strange upon 
me: I am your friend, your deliverer — 

Count. If you should betray me 

Nic. Betray you ? 

Count. And yet I think you will not — you look 
honest. 

Nic. Yes, I am a poor, yet honest fisherman : my 
hut is near at hand ; and if I do not safely take you to 



417 

to it, may I die like a rascal, or/what's a greater pu- 
nishment, may I live like one. 

Coun. Be faithful, and you shall not want for re- 
compence. 

Nic. I am already paid. [Exeunt. 

(Durazzo's vessel appears at a distance and fires the 
salute agreed upon, which not being returned, he 
and part of his crew come in the boat to the cavern 
on the side nearest the sea, and having searched it, 
co?ne through to the passage from which the Fisher- 
man and Countess have escaped.) 
Dur. Curse on them both ! 
Sail. There is no Countess there. 
Dur. Nor has been ; they are either drunk or trea- 
cherous — Fool that I was to trust them. 

Sail. Hush ! hush 1 look out, noble Captain — 
There's a petticoat yonder ! 

Dur. 'Tis she, by heav'n J — Who is the fellow on 
whose arm she leans ? 

2d. Sail. The fisherman Nicolino, — See, they are 
going towards his hut. 

Bur. Then she is mine yet ! Fasten the boat to 
the rock, and follow me J 



E E 



418 

AIR 13th. (Chorus.) 

Softly, softly steal, 
As ye circle round 
Yon upland ground; 
The whisp'ring sound 
Let echo hear, but not reveal. 

Quick let your pace, and silent be, 

As fairy feet 

The greensward greet, 

As the dews of night 

On the blossoms light, 
Or the moon-beams trip along the sea. 

[J^xeimt. 



419 

ACT III. 

Scene, the Sea-side. 

Leah, and Sailors following her* 

Leah, [singing.) Mariners, come follow me ! 

1st Sail. Follow you ? Egad, I'll follow you no 
further: I should like to know where this devil's 
dance is to end. 

2d Sail. It shall end here with me. 

1st Sail. I begin to think she's only playing the fool 
with us. 

Leah. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

2d Sail. What does she laugh at ? 

Leah. At you, to be sure - — ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

2d Sail. Oh, ho ! What, you're flesh and blood, 
are you. 

Leah. Nothing else, I assure you. 

1st Sail. Egad ! I'll be convinced of that. (Catches 
hold of her.) Flesh and blood, sure enough ! though 
I shan't be quite certain till I have tried her lips. 

Leah. Nay, if you attempt to be rude, I'll raise 
such a set of spirits ! 

2d Sail. Spirits, quotha ! Thou hast raised my 
flesh and blood, and I'll have one kiss. 

Leak. Keep your distance I 
E E 2 



420 

2d Sail. Nay, I will have one smack, I'm determined. 

Leah. Take it then. [Hits him a box of the ear, 
and attempts to run off, but is caught by the other 
sailo?:) 

1st Sail. Not so fast, my pretty will o' the wisp : 
you have led us a dance ; you see, and now you shall 
pay the piper. Let's take her to the rock. 

2d Sail. Yes, yes, you may as well come by fair 
means. (Leah cries out for help, and. as they arc 
carrying her off, Nicolino, fyc. come to her relief, 
and beat off the sailors.) 

Scene 2d. — Nicolino, &c. and Leah. 

Leah. Oh, Nicolino ! you came just in time : I 
don't know what they would have done with me. 

Nic. No matter, you have played your part to a 
miracle. 

Leah. Have you got the lady safe off? 

Nic. Yes. 

Leah. And is it the countess? 

Nic. Yes. 

Leah. And shall we have the reward ? 

Nic. Every ducat. Zounds ! my heart jumps about 
like a flying fish. A thousand ducats ! And the 
countess has promised to add five hundred more. And 
— what dy'e think, Leah ? 



421 



Leah. Think ? I cannot think, I am too happy to 
think ! 

Nic. She has promised to procure thy father's con- 
sent to our marriage, and to stand godmother to our 
first boy. 

Leah. Psha ! Nonsense ! 

AIR 14th. (Duet.) 
Nic. Since, then, no more 

Nicolino is poor, 
Your father no more his consent will deny. 
And if he should 
Be still so rude, 
His daughter, without it, perhaps may comply. 
Nic. Why then the point is carried. 

We may fix the day; 
Lovely Leah say, 
When shall we be married ? 
Tomorrow? Leah. Pho ! 
Nic. On Friday ? Leah. No. 

Nic. Then on Saturday ? 

Leah. No, nor on Monday. 
Nic. I'll be hang'd but you mean 

The day between. 
Leah. Perhaps I may mean 

The day between. 
Both. Yes, yes, it shall be on Sunday. [Exeunt. 
ee 3 



422 



Scene 3d. * The Fisherman's Cottage. 

The Countess and Martha. 

Coun. So, to save your brother's life, you have 
promised them both that you would sacrifice your 
honour? 

Mar. Yes, madam ; but indeed I am innocent, and 
can assure your ladyship that what I promised I never 
meant to perform. 

Coun. Well, well, girl ! do as I have directed, and 
take this letter to my steward : it contains some in- 
structions for him to prepare for their reception : you'll 
have time to return before they come. 

Mar. Yes, madam, I'll be back immediately. 

[Exit. 

Coun. (Sola.) So, I think this will be the last love 
adventure of this honest Jew, whose conscience would'nt 
let his daughter marry a Christian ; and of the mer- 
ciful judge who would acquit the guilty for the sake of 
corrupting the innocent. 

* This scene was wholly omitted in the representation* 



423 



AIR 15th. 

I. 

Escap'd from the net 

Which the fowler had set, 
The bird feels his spirit elate ; 

And conscious, like me, 

That his pinions are free^ 
He spreads them to welcome his mate. 

II. 

Yet I tremble^ I fear, 

At each sound that I hear ; 
My bosom with care is opprest ; 

Then safe in love's arms, 

Let me hush the alarms 
Of my heart, till it flutters to rest. 

[As she is singing the latter part of the song, 
Durazzo and the Sailors enter behind, 
suddenly seize her and bear her off. 

Scene, that part of the Shore cohere Durazzo had 
landed ; — his boat is fixed to the Rock, and his 
Ship appears at a distance. He enters with his 
Crew and the Countess. 

Dur. Quickly unloose the boat ! 
E E 4 



424 



Coun. Durazzo, hear me. 

Dur. When thou art safe on board, I'll hear thee, 
lady, 
As I would listen to the nightingale. 
Is all prepared ? [To the Sailors. 

Sail. All's ready, noble captain; but 'twill be im- 
possible to reach the ship. The sea runs mountains. 
See how she dances our vessel about like a cork ; and 
to have such a swell in an open boat 

Dur. Coward I 

Sail. No coward, either; but 'twould be little 
better than drowning oneself, to volunteer it to 
Davy's locker. 

Another Sail. Look, noble captain, she's on her 
beam ends. See, if she be not swallowed up. ( The 
Sailors give a loud shriek.) She rights again — no, 
all's lost — her lights are dash'd out — hark ! her 
signals. 

Dur. Peace, dastards \ 

Another Sail. All's over with her now : you can 
but just see her main-top — down she goes — down* 
down — 'look, look I ( They look for some time.) You 
can see nothing of her now. 

Dur. Well j let her sink! Now fate and I have 
grappled ; 
And when I shrink — Fly, some of you, to the port, 



425 

And give the alarm ! Begone ! The rest with me. 
Firm as a rock my castle yet remains, 
Which laughs to scorn the battle of the waves. 
Earthquakes, indeed, may gape and swallow it. 
All mortal hazard I defy. 

AIR 16th. (Song.) 
O'er my poor shatter'd bark, as they throng moun- 
tains high, 
The billows triumphant may roll ; 
And the flash to its victim may light thro' the sky 

The thunder — but calm is my soul. 
For the thunder shall cease, and the waves that now 

roar, 
Soon lie silently scatter'd in foam on the shore. 

Chorus, 
Away to the castle^ quick, bear her away ! 
Let him set her free, 
(And what mortal is he), 
Who can tear from the gripe of the lion his prey. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene, the Fisherman's Cottage. 

Mar. {As entering.) Ha^ ha, ha, ha ! We shall 
have rare sport at the Countess's ! There's to be a 



426 



masquerade, and a great entertainment, to receive my 
two lovers : and if I can only perform my part with 
success, it will be one of the best jokes — ha, ha, ha ! 
(A knock at the door.) So, so, honest Mr. Balthazar, 
that's your knock I'm sure. Within a minute of his 
time. Your old sinners are always punctual, be- 
cause 

[She opens the door, and, Balthazar enters, 
disguised as the Judge. 

Bat. Are you quite alone ? 

Mar. Don't you see I am ? 

Bal. I was afraid you had company. Didn't I 
hear somebody laugh ? 

Mar. 'Twas me. I had just fallen asleep, and 
was dreaming what a fool you were making of Signor 
Stephano : I awoke myself with laughing. 

Bal. Yes, and I have been making a pretty fool 
of myself! I have been cutting off my beard. It is 
not for every woman I would cut off my beard ; but 
you, Mrs. Martha, can make me do any thing. I have 
settled your business with the judge. 

Mar. And so have I yours. {Aside,) 

Bal. We have agreed that Nicolini shall be par- 
doned — I thought Signor Stephano was a hard- 
hearted man, but I find him merciful, very merciful. 



4&7 

He pities you very much — he wanted to call and tell 
you so, but you know there was no occasion for that. 

Mar. None in the least. 

Bal. So I told him he need not give himself the 
trouble ; for, you know, when a man feels for the dis- 
tresses of a woman, and a young woman, and a beau- 
tiful young woman ; there is no knowing how far his 
pity may carry him ! (A knocking at the door.) Bless 
my soul ! what ish dat ? 

Mar. Hush ! 

Steph. ( Without.) Mrs. Martha, Mrs. Martha ! 

Bal. 'Tis his voice as I live ! 

Mar. Was ever any thing so unfortunate? why 
didn't you persuade him not to come ? 

Bal. You won't let him in ? 

Mar. Refuse to open the door to a judge ? 

Bal. What will become of me ? 

Mar. Here, here, can't you get into this cloaths- 
press ? (Opens the folding doors of a cloaths-press, 
which has a partition down the middle.) 

Bal. Impossible ! 

Steph. (Without.) Mrs. Martha, I say r 

Mar. He won't stay five minutes. 

Bal. I shall be smother'd in half the time ! 

Mar. In, in ; I'll dispatch him immediately. 

Bal. If you don't, you'll dispatch me. 



428 



Mar. PliOj pho, you'll have plenty of air through 
the key-hole — 

Bait, Thro' the key hole? oh, what will become 
of me ? (She locks him up in one side of' the press.) 

Mar. So I have caged one of my turtle-doves 
safely, now for the other — {Opens the door, and Signor 
Stephano enters disguised as the Jew.) 

Step. Well, you little jade, what made you so long 
before you opened the door ? 

Mar. You were in such a hurry — I was only 
locking something up in the cloaths-press. 

Steph. Well, you little jade, here I am ! Why don't 
you laugh at me ? (She laughs.) That's right, laugh at 
me heartily, or I shall think I am but half metamor- 
phosed. (She turns him about, and laughs heartily.) 
Well, havn't I done it completely ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mar. I think you have, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Steph. Don't I cut a very ridiculous figure, ha ! ha ! 
ha! 

Mar. Very ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Steph. Did you ever know a man make a greater 
fool of himself, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Man Never ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Steph. Ha ! ha ! ha ! but to be serious ; you have 
seen Balthazar, I suppose ? 

Mar. No. 



429 

Steph. He promised to call, but I suppose he'll take 
some other opportunity? 

Mar. Very likely. 

Steph. He's a good soul, and I can assure you, felt 
for your distresses, as if they had been his own ; would 
you believe it, when he talk'd of your situation, he 
was absolutely in tears. 

Mar. Kind-hearted creature ! 

Steph. Tho' a judge, I could not forbear weeping 
myself. 

Mar. Poor Nicolino, then, has nothing to fear. 

Steph. Nothing, and every thing to hope. Well, 
and now we're quite snug and alone — 

Mar. Yes, there are only three of us. 

Steph. Hey ! what ? three of us ? 

Mar. Why, you know, there's myself one, and you 
are two. 

Steph. Ha, ha ! ha, well, that is a very good joke ; 
and the best of the joke is, that I am at once your 
gallant and your confessor ; as a Jew I can't commit 
more sin than as a judge I can pardon, and — (A 
knocking at the door.) What the devil's that ? 

Mar. 'Tis he ! 

Steph. What, Balthazar? 

Mar. Yes, I know his rap. 

Steph. Well, you know you're not at home — 



430 



Mart. Yes, but he knows I am at home. 

Steph. What can you do with me ? 

Mart. Hush ! You can step in here for a minute 
[opening the cloaths-press door). 

Steph. What, make a close prisoner of a judge ? 

Mar. Well, well, never mind ; I shall be your 
jailor, and shall release you presently. 

Steph. Why look you, as a judge I cannot submit 
to it, but as a Jew, I must submit to every thing. — 
You'll send him off immediately ? 

Mar. Oh ! you may depend upon it, [Locks him up.) 
I'll send you both off immediately : Aye, you may now 
bill and coo to one another. [Comes forward on the 
stage.) Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Oh ! when they come to beturn'd 
out before the whole company, ha, ha, ha ! how they 
will look at one another, ha, ha, ha ! I shall die with 
laughing, and never be able to go thro' with the joke. 

[Exit. 

Scene ; the Sea Shore* 

Enter the two Sailors who carried off the Countess. 
1st Sail. A pretty day's work we have made of it, 
first to lose the necklace, afterwards to lose the lady, 
and for our Captain to lose his ship — It runs in my 
head that you and J, instead of being tickled in the 

* This scene was altered and improved in the representation. 



431 

palm of the hand, shall have our reward scored upon 
our backs ; and instead of having a diamond necklace 
between us, we may very likely have one made of hemp. 

Id Sail. Hush ! hush ! Here comes Signor Ro- 
sano : now if we can but persuade him that our 
Captain has taken his prize to the castle, we may 
make our peace yet. 

1st Sail, Well thought on, stand by ! 

Enter Rosano. 
Ros. Some say it was Morani's ship that sunk ; 
Others, with firmer tone, yet they not certain, 
Pronounce it was Durazzo's. — 
AIR 17th. 
I. 
Whither shall I their path pursue^ 
What reason can my footsteps guide ; 
Or how shall judgment find a clue, 
When fortune only can decide. 

II. 

The miser robb'd of all his store, 

Thus fearfully his steps doth measure, 

And circles round the hallow'd spot, 

Which lodg'd his only treasure : 

For where it was still fancy paints the scene, 

Fairer than that, where it has never been. 



432 



Ros. Well met, friends ! 

Know you whose vessel 'twas that founder'd ? 

Sail. Durazzo's. 

Ros. Are you sure ? 

15/ Sail. We should be, seeing as how we are of 
his ship's crew. 

Ros. Was he on board ? 

2d Sail. No, no, he's safe enough at his castle. 

Ros. Are you sure of that? 
I am his friend, and fain would know the truth. 

1st Sail. He pass'd us here but now. 

Ros. Alone? 

2d Sail. No, there was great part of the crew with 
him, and a lady. 

Ros. What, young and handsome ? 

1 st Sail. A light-timber'd wench enough — 

Ros. How was she dress'd ? 

2d Sail. Like most of your great ladies, furbelowed 
out with a deal of spare canvas — Tho' she was but a 
frigate, she carried sail enough for a first rate. 

1st Sail. I don't know what they were going to do 
with her, but she set up her pipes lustily. However, 
sir, if you wish to see the Captain, I'd advise you to 
take half a hundred fuzileers with you, and a four 

and twenty pounder or two, for 

Ros. Damnation ! 



433 



1st Sail. He might not chuse to receive gentlemen'* 
visits . 

JRos. I thank you, my friends, for your information, 
I thank you — Take that, and drink Rosano's health. 
(TJirozvs down a purse and exit.) 

1st Sail, [after looking some time at the purse) 
Well, shall we fight for it ? 

2d. Sail. Psha ! don't remind a man of his follies, 
take it up. 

1st Sail. I think we have done the thing at last ; — 
brought ourselves up with a wet sail : Eh, messmate ? 

2d Sail. Yes, if we havn't clench'd the nail now, 
the devil's in it — but what must we do next ? 

1st Sail. Do ? What a lubberly question that is for a 
couple of sailors who have money. — Here's fun for a 
fortnight, and tho' it should only last us a week, that's 
an age for gentlemen of our profession to look forward 
to : so we'll go and drink Sia'nor Rosano's health. — 
Ha, ha, ha, I can't help thinking how he'll batter 
about the old walls. 

2d Sail. Yes, and after he has committed a bur- 
glary with his four and twenty pounders, to find 
nobody at home. 

1st Sail. And then to pay so handsomely for being 
imposed on. ha, ha, ha. 

2d Sail. Yes, he was determined not to be made a 
fool of for nothing. 

F F 



434 

15/ Sail. And the best of the joke is, that whilst we 
are drinking his health, he'll be wishing us both at 
the devil. 

Id Sail. Well ! well ! that's the case with a great 
many people who drink their friends' healths. — Come 
along, [Exeunt. 

Scene in Durazzo's Castle. 

The Countess. 

AIR 18th. 
Delusive hope, once more adieu ! 

Thy visions of delight, 
Melt from my disenchanted view ; 

I wake, and all is night. 
Thou, like the solitary ray, 

Which cheers the dying captive's gloom, 
Dost glitter only to betray, 

And gild the horrors of his tomb. 

The storm yet rages loud ; yet thou, my soul, 
Be still, nor let the terrors of the night — 
Hark ! 'tis Durazzo's step : protect me, heav'n ! 

Enter Durazzo, 
Dur. Why dost thou start ? Am I so hideous* lady, 
That at the sight, thy nature shrinks abhorrent, 
As at a church-yard apparition 
The village hiads ? 



435 



Coun. More horrible than that ! 

Mid the wild uproar of the elements, 
Thou comest like the demon of the storm* 
Thy look is desolation, and thy touch 
A with'ring blast to nature. 

Dur. Why I come, 

Proud beauty, thou shalt know : but gather this — 
I came not to fool time away with words, 
1 came not to intreat, but to command : — 
I did not come to woo thee like the dove, 
But like the pard, to grapple and enjoy. 
Therefore these looks of scorn are out of season. 
'Tis not the fierce displeasure of thine eye ; 
Thy tone imperious, or thy swelling lip, 
Can shake me from my purpose. Mark me, lady ! 
Revenge may diet on a woman's scorn, 
Keenly as love can on her bounty feed. — 
Swear, then, to-morrow's sun shall see thee mine, 
This moment swear it, or the very next 
Shall give to vengeance what is due to love. 

Coun* Durazzo, hear me ? 

Dur. You refuse ? 

Coun, Nay, hear me ! (Kneels.) 

I do conjure you, as you are a man — 
From woman's breasts have drawn humanity — 
Have known the blessed sleep that waits on goodness— ^ 
Damn not yourself and me. 
ff2 



Dur. Why, thou art woman ? 

True woman ! very woman to the last ! 
When the loud fury of your words is vauij 
You try with tears to soften me to folly : 
So, when the fury of the wind subsides, 
Relenting nature melts into a shower : 
But I am proof to both, and thus I seize, 
Cold stubborn fair one — (As she is struggling with him^ 
the -alarm bell of the castle rings^ and immedi- 
ately after one of his crew enters.) 
Sail. Captain, they storm the castle. 
Dur. Confusion ! who $ 
Sail. Rosano, and some fifty of his friends. 
Coun. Assist them, god of justice ! 

{Clasping her hands.) 
Dur. Why, lady, you lookpleas'd ? rekindling hope 
Mounts to your cheek and dances in your eye. 
There is some dalliance there for young Rosano* 
But I will spoil your dream. Who waits without ? 

(Some of his crew enter.) 
Quick thro' the windings of the secret vault, 
To the dark tower convey her ! 
That done., assemble in the court. 

(Exeunt Sailors with the Countess.) 
Dur. (Solus.) True, they have traced the lion to 
his den ; 
But shall they wrest the victim from my gripe* 



437 

Rosano and his friends ? What^ shall these walls, 

That bid defiance to the roaring winds, 

And lift their heads to meet the thunderbolt. 

Bow to man's mimic battery ? Vain fools ! 

There is a magic in the howling storm, 

Which fills mv soul with terror, and aught else 

Is but the idle prattle of a babe. [Exit. 

Scene, the Exterior of the Castle.— flew of the Tower 
to which the Countess has been carried. 

Rosano and his Followers enter. 

Bos. This way, my friends; on this side we must 
enter^ or all is lost. 

(The storm continues, Rosano and his Party attach the 
Castle — A foeach is made — Durazzo and his 
Followers appear and engage the Assailants — 
Rosano disarms Durazzo and carries off the 
Countess.* 

Dur. (Solus.) Thus is my shame complete, and 
fix'd his triumph. 

* By a judicious transposition, this was made the last 
scene in The Fisherman $ "Hut. 



438 



AIR lSth. 

Welcome, once more, thou heaving ocean ! 
Land of my blighted hopes, #dieu ! 
Soon shall my sails with ling'ring motion 
Sink slowly from the landman's view. 
Let winds blow hard and billows rave, 
The roaring blast, the whelming tide, 
My shatter'd vessel may outride, 
Led by the star, 
That gleams from far, 
To light her o'er the pathless wave i 
But woman, he 
Who trusts to thee, 
Shall perish on an unknown sea, 
No voice to cheer, no lamp to guide. [Exit. 

Scene, the Countess's. — The clothes press is seen at 
the back part of the stage — The Justice steals 
out from one tide towards the one door, and the 
Jew in like manner towards the other, but finding 
both doors fast, they turn round, and after look* 
ing very shy at one another for some time, gradu- 
ally apjjroach.* 
Steph. Ah ! what, my friend Balthazar, is it you ? 

* In the representation, this scene, much compressed, 
\vas included in that preceding it, at the Fisherman's 
Cottage. 



439 

Bal. And ^y dear friend, Signer Steph ano, is it 
you? 'Twas well there was a partition in the clothes 
press. 

; Steph. I want nothing but embalming to be a perfect 
mummy. If they had used me for a threshing floor, 
and beat out a cart-load of wheat upon me, my bones 
could not ache more completely. 

Bal. I feel as if I had been broke upon the wheel, 
and was only waiting for the coup de grace. 

Steph. Between you and me, I think I cut a very 
ridiculous figure. 

Bal. Between you and me, I think dat ish very 
much the case with myself. 

Steph. But how the devil did you get into that 
clothes press t 

Bal. My dear friend, how did you get there ? 

Steph. No matter ; I believe the less that's said 
about it the better : but where are we ? 

Bal. That ish what I should like to know myself. 

Steph. We are not brought here for nothing, I'm 
afraid. 

Bal. No, my bones have paid handsomely for the 
carriage. 

Steph. As our disguises can be of no use to us, sup* 
pose we cast them off? 

BaL Dat ish a good thought. (He listens at one 



440 

door, Stephano at the other.) All is quiet,; we'll 
about it immediately. (They assist to dress one 
another.) Stay, stay, you have forgot my beard. 

Steph. True. (Fixes on the beard.) There, I 
think now, whatever the joke may be, we shall spoil 
it. 

Bat. Yesh ; but I wish I was out of this house. 
(Sound of music without.) What ish dat ? what will 
become of us ? 

(The back Scene opens, and discovers a masquerade. 
—Balthazar and Stephano endeavour to con- 
ceal themselves. Several of the characters, after 
dancing some time, come forward.) 

Steph. A masquerade ? zounds ! 

1st Masq. Hey day ! who have we here ? Two 
guests without either masque or domino : how is this, 
crentlemen ? didn't you know you were invited to a 
masquerade ? 

Bat, Oh, yesh, I know that, but I did not expect 
to meet so much company. 

2d Masq. Psha, they were not invited, depend 
upon it; they have got in with forg'dlickets ; or took 
advantage of the mob, and have had the impudence 
to introduce themselves. 

Bal. Upon my conscience, I didn't introduce my- 
self. 



441 



2d Masq. {To Stephano.) And you, sir, were you 
invited by the Countess ? 

Steplu The Countess ! what Countess ? 

2d Masq. Oh ! 'tis clear they are impostors, and 
we must make an example of them for the good of 
society. 

Steph. Make an example of a judge for the good of 
society ? {Aside.) Gentlemen, there is nobody makes 
more examples for the good of society than I do ; and 
if you will but explain this joke. 

1st Masq. Joke! did you ever hear such an im- 
pudent fellow ? We'll send him to the pump im- 
mediately. 

StepJi. Send a judge to be pump'd. on ! What 
will become of me? 

2d Masq. And as for his accomplice, this little,, 
dirty, ill-looking dog — 

Bal. Aye, dat ish me. 

2d Masq. We'll have the pleasure of tossing him 
in a blanket ourselves. {They seize,. Balthazar.) 
Faith ! he shall caper for it ! 

Bal. Oh, no — I cannot caper; I never could ca- 
per in my life ! Do not, I beseech you, toss me in 
a blanket ! for my bones are so jolted^ and so shaken, 
and so batter'd, and so bruis'd, that if you toss me in 

G G 



442 



a feather bed, I shall fall to pieces like an over- 
roasted chicken. 

1st Masq. Oh! here comes the Countess — she 
shall determine their punishment. 

Enter Martha dressed as the Countess, and masked* 

Mar. For Heaven's sake, what's all this confu- 
sion ? Why are you laying violent hands on my two 
excellent friends here ? Oh ! for shame ! 

2d Masq. Did your ladyship invite those gentle^ 
men? 

Mar. To be sure, I did ; and sent my own servants 
to bring them here. Fye, fye, let them go ! Give 
me leave to apologize, Signors, for the rough treat- 
ment of my guests, who were ignorant of your tjua^ 
lity. Why, didn't you know this gentleman ? This 
is Signor Stephano, a very upright judge, who, for 
the love of woman, winks at the iniquity of man, and 
discovers modes of administering comfort to discon- 
solate maidens. {All laugh.) And this is honest 
Balthazar, the Jew, 

Bal. I vish I vas in Egypt. 

Mar. He, too, has a vast kindness for females; 
but tho' he can, without difficulty, bring his mind to 
debauch his friend's sister, he is a man of too delicate 



443 

a conscience to think of making her his wife ! (A 
general laugh, Martha unmasks, and discovers her- 
self, and the Countess, Rosano, Nicolino, &c. 
comeforward.) 

Bal. Mercy on me ! — The Countess ! 

Steph. The Countess ! Then I must congratulate 
her; though I wish I was fifty miles off! Madam, 
however whimsical appearances may be, yet give me 
leave to assure you, that I am so surprised and over- 
joyed, and overcome, at your unexpected appearance, 
that I can neither contain nor express myself. 

Bal. I must make a speech myself. (Aside.) And 
give me leave to assure your ladyship, that though our 
appearance here is, as Signor stepliaiio observes, a 
little whimsical, yet that I rejoice with sincerity in your 
safety ; and I am so happy to find my friend Nicolino is 
innocent — 

Coun, That you would, no doubt, give your con- 
sent to his marrying your daughter, though he had 
not obtained the reward of a thousand ducats.? and I 
had not made him a promise of adding five hundred 
more to it. 

Bal. Fifteen hundred ducats ! (Aside.) Well, 
well ; as my friend is innocent, I will give my con- 
sent. Now he is rid of his poverty, I know of no 
fault he has, but his youth. 



444 



Court, That, you know, is one on the right side^ 
which he will always be mending. But a truce to 
raillery. While I laugh at your follies^ let me recol- 
lect that I am indebted to you both for my safety ; 
and that, had not the one been his friend, and the 
other his judge, I should never have owed my deli- 
verance to a poor fisherman — who, being now per- 
fectly cleared before one tribunal, hopes to be honour- 
ably acquitted by another. 

FINALE— Chorus. 

I. 

Frnm fh^ pprilc we have past, 

Fresh delight we borrow -, 
Joy has still a keener taste, 

"When it springs from sorrow. 

II. 

Hope, that dawns from deep despair, 

Gives a warmer feeling ; 
Brighter morning's blushes are, 

From night's shadows stealing. 

THE END. 



Printed by Strahan and Spottiswoode, 
Printers-Street, London. 



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